


Scarred Lives

by TheKatlocker (TheKat79)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Empty hearse fix-it, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach, Rape/Non-con Elements, S3-fix-it, Scars, Sharing a Bed, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKat79/pseuds/TheKatlocker
Summary: After the fall and before  Sherlock left for Eastern Europe, he followed John for a couple of days through London. What he saw was excruciating.When he came back to London two lonely years later he had made up his mind, he wanted to tell John about his feelings. Maybe he had a chance after all?That was before he overheard John yelling at Mrs Hudson that he was not gay in 221b and before he heard that John wanted to propose to someone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this first chapter was provided by the lovely LadyTuesday, who allowed me to use it as starting point for my new fic.  
> She also beta'd this chapter, which I'm incredibly thankful for! Any mistakes that are still in here are entirely my own. 
> 
> Prompt at the end of this chapter as it contains spoilers.

Sherlock threw the door of the shabby little hotel room open that has been his temporary home ever since his fake suicide about a month ago, shutting it with a bang. When he flopped down on the narrow bed, a considerable amount of dust swirled through the air. Bending down, Sherlock propped his elbows onto his knees and shoved both hands into his hair. He had just seen John for the first time since that day. He couldn't bring himself to look for him earlier, it was just too painful, but his mission was going to take him out of London in less than a week, so he couldn't help himself, he had to see him. 

John was standing at his gravestone, giving a little speech, begging for Sherlock not to be dead. And he had been crying. Why had he been crying? It has been a month since his apparent death. He had been so sure that John would be over it by now, but he was crying, for God's sake. _Crying!_

John was the best friend Sherlock has ever had, but he had no idea that the feeling was mutual. Sherlock always had the impression that he was merely an annoying presence in John's life on his better days and entirely intolerable more often than not. He was aware that John valued him on some level, they had agreed to die together with nothing more than a nod, after all. What he had seen on the graveyard however seemed more like a grieving widower than a flatmate or friend. The devastation in John's eyes had nearly knocked him off his feet. He had no idea that he had been so important to the man. 

Sherlock had hardly restrained himself from rushing out of his hiding spot. He wanted to tell John that he was alive, wanted to take John with him to Eastern Europe. He wanted to just take John by the hand, drag him back to Baker Street and lock the doors behind them. He wanted to keep up their old lives - being flatmates, working together, having fun - but he knew he couldn't have any of this. Maybe never again. 

He knew that it would be John's death sentence if he had done any of this, so he stayed hidden behind a tree and had waited until John had left the cemetery, before he went back to this godforsaken hotel. He needed to see John again, maybe he could find a way to tell John he was alive after all. He couldn't leave London without seeing him one more time, without making sure that John would be fine on his own. 

Sherlock went outside to hail a cab. It had gotten dark in the meantime and the streets were pretty empty in the shabby neighborhood. He told the driver to drop him off at Marylebone Road and walked the last few yards to Baker Street. He hid in a dark entryway opposite 221b from where he could observe the windows of the living room. It seemed to be pretty dark in the flat with just a faint light that probably came from the sink in the kitchen. When they were living together there was always a fire in the mantle. And tea. There had always been tea. Now the flat seemed cold and empty, even from his hiding spot in the street. 

Sherlock waited for ages for anything to happen, but there was no movement in the flat whatsoever. Well, nothing that he could see from where he was standing at least. It was nearing 11 pm and the night had become pretty chilly. He had just decided to go back to the hotel, when the front door of 221b was being opened. Sherlock jumped back into his hiding spot as soon as he saw John emerging from the doorway, dressed in his best jeans and dating shoes and Sherlock's heart missed a beat. John hailed a cab and got inside, and as soon as it had passed him, Sherlock hailed one to follow him. 

They were driving into a different part of the city where John's cab stopped in front of a club. John lingered on the pavement for quite some time, looking up and down the road, his left hand clenching nervously, before he eventually went inside. Sherlock followed a few minutes later and was quite taken aback by the sound and the scent that greeted him. He hadn't been to a night club for ages. That was part of his old life. The one before John. The life he didn't want to think about at all. Yet the sound and scent threw him straight back into those mostly unpleasant memories. Sherlock shook his head to get the unwanted thoughts out of his head and took a place close to the entrance behind a concrete column to scan the room. It didn't take him more than two seconds to recognize that he was in a gay club. He saw John at the bar, a beer in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other. John downed the scotch in one gulp and ordered another with a click of his fingers.

John stood with his back to the bar and scanned the room in front of him, drinking his beer in large gulps and downed the second scotch just as fast as the first. After about ten minutes, one beer and three scotch later, he walked to the dance floor and stopped abruptly in front of a lanky man, with dark curly hair and pale skin. John talked to him for a few minutes and then the man followed him out the back door. Sherlock rushed behind them, careful not to be seen and stepped outside into a dark, filthy alley. The ground beneath his feet was wet, a moldy scent in the air that made Sherlock crinkle his nose disapprovingly. 

He could see John and the curly man about a hundred feet away in an even darker corner of the alley. John was just pressing the man against the wall with the weight of his full body. His hands were in the other's hair and around his neck, his tongue apparently in the man's mouth, as far as Sherlock could see. Sherlock's gut clenched and he hid behind a dust bin on the opposite side of the alley as quickly as he could manage. When he looked up again, John had his back against the wall and the other man just dropped to his knees in front of him, looked up to John who nodded once and then opened John's fly to pull out his erect cock. The man sucked John off pretty quickly and efficiently and John came within minutes, biting down on his hand to stifle his groans. 

Sherlock felt sick to the stomach. John 'Not Gay' Watson let a man suck him off in a filthy alley behind a gay club. The same John Watson who told everyone who wanted to listen that he was not gay and that they were not a couple. Well, obviously not so straight then, he just wasn't interested in Sherlock.  
He wanted to go home, to 221b, his refuge. He wanted to hide under the blankets of his bed and don't think of anything at all, but there was no home he could go to, there was just a filthy hotel room. So he did the only thing he could and looked back to John, who just tucked himself away. The other man got up and leaned in to kiss him, but John ducked out under him and ran away, straight into Sherlock's direction. The man yelled a few unpleasant things after him, but John was already around the corner and out of earshot. At least Sherlock hoped so, considering the man's vocabulary. 

Sherlock rushed out from his spot behind the bin to follow John and saw him vanishing into another alley on the opposite side of the street. Sherlock ran after him and came just in time to see John vomiting against the wall. He retched violently, his chest heaving, until the insides of his stomach were pooled in front of his feet on the ground. There wasn't much on the floor at all though, the only things John seemed to have consumed that day were the scotch and beer from the club. 

He waited around the corner of the alley until John had composed himself with a few deep breaths, before he went out into the street to hail a cab. Sherlock left a few minutes later, taking a cab back to his hotel. Once inside he rushed to the bathroom and drained the insides of his stomach into the toilet. His stomach clenched violently several times. The only thing Sherlock could do was hold onto the rim of the porcelain with shaking hands, trying hard to get enough air into his lungs inbetween the gagging.  
When there wasn't anything left except acerbic bile, he leaned back against the wall and drew his knees up to his chest. Arms slipping around his shins, Sherlock started to cry. He cried and cried, his chest heaving, until the tears finally ran dry. He felt too weak to even consider getting up from the floor, so he just dropped to his side onto the cold tiles, arms still clutched around his legs and fell into a dreamless sleep. 

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night with aching limbs and a pounding head. A short glimpse at his mobile phone told him that it was nearly 4 am. He got up from the floor awkwardly, joints stiff from the unnatural position he had slept in and switched the shower on. Ignoring the foul taste in his mouth, he stripped off his clothes and stood under the spray, turning the water as hot as it would get. After he nearly burned his skin he turned it ice cold, leaned his forehead against the wall weakly and stayed under the spray until he was shivering from head to toe, teeths chattering violently. He wanted to numb his feelings, numb his thoughts, refused to think about what had happened the night before. He didn't want to think about what it meant, but his mind was running in circles without his consent. John claimed to be not gay, yet he went to a gay club to look for sex. John didn't want to be in a relationship with Sherlock, yet he let himself be sucked off by a man that looked very much like himself and then threw up immediately afterwards. 

So did he find Sherlock so repulsive after all? Why look for someone who looked like him in the first place, if he couldn't stand the thought? Was this some kind of self-flagellation?

Sherlock's mind raced, his chest felt terribly tight and his heart was pounding violently. When he finally left the shower on shaking legs, his skin was dark red and burning, which was a good thing since the pain overshadowed the ache in his heart.  
*Sentiment!*  
Even in his head the word sounded as if he needed to spit it out. He dried himself off and opened the window. It had started to rain during the night and there was a chilly wind blowing through the window. He took a package of cigarettes out of his coat pocket, stood in front of the open window in nothing but a towel around his narrow hips and smoked. After numbing his thoughts in the shower his mind was positively blank for the moment. He could just stand there, watch the raindrops and think of nothing at all. When he finally closed the window five cigarettes later it dawned already. He dressed himself in his usual suit and coat, ignoring his shivering body completely and left the room. 

He walked through the alleys of London for ages, ignoring the calls and texts from Mycroft who was following him through CCTV. There was a briefing today in Mycroft's office about his first mission in Eastern Europe, but he had to clear his mind. He couldn't concentrate on anything else than John and what he had seen last night, although he wanted nothing more than get those pictures out of his head. 

Sherlock went back to Baker Street after dark and waited in the same entryway like the day before. He didn't have to wait very long however, since John left the house much earlier today, dressed in the same jeans and shoes like the night prior and took a cab into a completely different part of town. 

It took Sherlock nothing more than a short glance to recognize another gay bar. When he came inside, John was at the bar again and just took a beer and a scotch from the bartender. He downed the scotch immediately, much like the night before. 

It apparently did take John longer than last time to find what he was looking for, which gave him enough time for a fourth scotch and a second beer. The man John approached about half an hour of searching the room was about Sherlock's height and build. He had dark curly hair, but much shorter than Sherlock's and piercing bright eyes. The way the man held himself showed a lot of self-confidence, even arrogance and reminded Sherlock much of himself. John put on his best Captain Watson posture and strode over to the other side of the room, where the man was leaning against a wall, chatting languidly with some other guy. John pulled him down into a kiss wordlessly and that seemed to be all it took for him to follow John into a corridor at the back of the bar. Sherlock needed a few seconds to process what he had just seen, not able to move a muscle for several seconds. When he was finally able to shake off the paralyzation in his limbs, John and the other man were already out of the room. Sherlock followed through the same door, that led him into a narrow, shady corridor, with two doors for the loos, plus a fire escape door at the far end.  
He approached it and opened it slowly. John and the other man were on the opposite side of the back alley between two large dust bins. The man just shoved his pants down while John fumbled in the pockets of his jeans until he had found what he was looking for. Sherlock heard a ripping noise accompanied by some cursing from John before he saw John fucking the man hard against the wall, his right hand clenched in the other's hair, his left hand digging hard into the man's hip. 

Sherlock's stomach turned at the sight and he had to get away before he vomited all over the alley. He stopped in some distant corner, bending forward and tried to get his insides under control. Breathing deeply he desperately tried not to think about John and what he was just doing. 

A few minutes later John stumbled past him. Sherlock had to hide very quickly, but when John passed him he didn't seem to recognize anything or anyone at all. Sherlock followed a minute later and heard the retching sound before he even saw him. John was bent over, vomiting violently, just like the night before. When he was done he sank down to his knees, arms hugged around his own torso and cried silently. 

That was too much, Sherlock couldn't take any more of it. He rushed off to his hotel, packed his things as quickly as he could manage and took a cab to Mycroft's house. 

“What do you think you are doing here, brother mine?” was Mycroft's greeting when he let him in.  
“I need to get out of London tonight.” Sherlock snapped.  
“Your flight is scheduled for Friday morning. If you had attended the briefing this morning you would have known that,” Mycroft said smugly.  
“Tonight!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from LadyTuesday: Naughty Johnlock headcanon: after Reichenbach, John went on a tear through several gay bars in London and had a string of random one-night stands with men who looked like Sherlock.
> 
> There is also a great oneshot to the same prompt from John's POV by the lovely bigblueboxat221b called NQR, check it out!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely bigblueboxat221b.   
> Thank you so much!

It has been two years since Sherlock had left London. Two years since he had seen John for the last time. Two years since his life was turned upside down. The longest two years of his goddamn life.   
He had just left Mycroft's office; that really felt more like a dungeon than an actual office. Sherlock had gotten a haircut and a shave. He was dressed in a new crisp white shirt and a black suit and he had his coat back. His appearance was that of the man he had been two years ago, but he wasn't the same man that had left London, he felt different now. Two years ago he thought he was indestructible. He found out the hard way that he was not. He found out that he was just as vulnerable as anybody else. 

All he wanted to do at the moment was going back to Baker Street, to his old life, to his friend. But John wasn't there anymore, he had left Baker Street. Sherlock had scanned his file very briefly, but John hadn't looked good in that picture and not just because of this terrible moustache. He looked tired, tired of life. He had never looked like that back in the old days, when they had lived and worked together, when they had been friends.   
And there was the name of a woman in this file, Mary Morstan. So he had found someone to spend his life with after all. Someone that was not Sherlock. It was hateful! 

It felt surreal, walking through London as if nothing had changed. Two days ago he was captured in a dungeon in Serbia, beaten to a pulp by a man that looked like a pit bull. The stinging wounds on his back reminded him vividly about that. They would scar quite nastily, since there hadn't been time to stitch him up properly. But that was nothing compared to the other scars he had collected during those two years. The ones that weren't visible on his skin. The ones buried deep down in his heart and in his soul.  
His soul. When had he become so sentimental?   
He never thought that something like a soul actually existed. He knew better now.   
He never thought that his heart would ever be more than a part of his transport, with its only purpose of pumping blood through his veins. He knew better now. 

His heart was the one part he wasn't able to switch off. It was the one part that had been aching constantly during the last two years. It was aching for London, it was aching for Baker Street, it was aching for the few friends he had, but above all it was aching for John.   
John. His John. No, not his, not anymore, maybe never before, not really at least. 

He was never able to forget what he had seen in those alleys so long ago. And he still didn't understand why John had done it. John said he wasn't gay, but he went out to have sex with random men. No, not random, men that looked a lot like Sherlock. Bisexual, then? Or was it really just some kind of self-punishment? If so, Sherlock didn't understand it, but it didn't matter anyways.   
What he did understand though, was that John was the only person in his life that mattered. He had found out that he could live without London, he could live without Baker Street and he could live without the few friends he had. But what he couldn't live without was John. And sooner or later he had found a name for the ache in his heart.   
It was love, as simple as that. He loved John. He had loved him from the day they had met. He just hadn`t known it before, or at least he didn't want to admit it to himself back then. But he knew now. 

And he needed to tell him, because this was the only thing that had kept him sane during the last two years. John was the only reason he was still alive, why he had tried everything in his power to come back. Sherlock knew that John would never feel that way for him. That Sherlock would never be more than a friend to the man. But it didn't matter he needed to tell him anyways, because there was never going to be anyone else for Sherlock. The only problem was Sherlock had no idea how. He wasn't very good with feelings after all. 

The first thing he needed to do though was get back to 221b. He wanted to feel at home again. _Safe._ He hadn´t felt save for a long time, not since John had left his side. He had been on the run for two years, constantly looking over his shoulder and trying not to get severely injured or killed. He had seen and done a lot of things he never wanted to remember, wanted to delete them from his memory. But they were there, etched on his memory and they were hunting him in his dreams, almost every night. Horrible dreams that made him wake up screaming, cold sweat all over his body, with his heart racing and his ears ringing. He wanted to forget them and he managed quite well during the day. But at night he felt helpless like a little child.   
He tried to avoid sleeping as much as his transport allowed him, but he was tired, so tired. He wasn´t a young man anymore, he wasn´t able to stay awake for days on end, high on drugs or adrenaline. He had been through too much and it had finally taken its toll on his body. 

He wanted to go back to Baker Street, wanted to feel the leather of his armchair under his palm, wanted to work with his microscope at the kitchen table, wanted to see the skull on the mantle, the bison head with the headphones on the wall, his violin... he had almost forgotten about his violin. He hadn't played for two years, but now that he remembered, his fingers were itching with the need to play his beloved instrument. He was able to talk through his violin. All the things he couldn´t say out loud, he could pour them into his music. It didn´t even matter if he composed himself or if he played one of the many pieces he knew by heart. As long as it fit his mood it worked, it helped.

Sherlock walked to Baker Street slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, careful not to scare it away. He was afraid that this was all just a dream that might vanish suddenly if he made a wrong move. That it was a dream his oversensitive mind provided to let him escape from the hell he had lived in for the past two years.   
He stood in front of 221b, staring at the familiar black door with the golden numbers and the heavy doorknocker. He set it to the right out of habit, without actually recognizing that he did it. He pulled his key out of his trouser pocket and slipped it into the key hole, turned it and opened the door. Mrs Hudson hadn't changed the locks then, careless. He stepped into the entryway, closed the door behind him and walked the few steps to the foot of the staircase where he stopped dead in his tracks.   
John was here. He heard him talking to Mrs Hudson in the flat upstairs and Sherlock's heart missed a beat... probably more than just one. His ears started ringing and his gut clenched suddenly, heart pounding wild in his chest. He tried to breathe, tried to calm his pulse and strained his ears. 

“... How many times, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock was not my boyfriend.”  
“Live and let live, that's my motto.”  
“Listen to me, I AM NOT GAY!”

Sherlock heard John yelling those words and his stomach turned. His ears were ringing again and he stumbled backwards until his shoulder hit the front door. He stood there, completely baffled and desperately tried to think of what to do next. When he heard footsteps on the stairs he closed the door to the corridor quickly, crouching down, so that he wouldn't be seen through the window in the upper half of the door. He heard Mrs Hudson's footsteps descending the stairs and then vanishing into her own flat. 

What had he been thinking, telling John about his _feelings?_   
Telling John that he loved him. _Stupid. Stupid!_  
Sherlock clenched his hands in his curls and tried to calm down. This was it, he would see John again in a matter of seconds. He wanted to see him, needed to see him, desperately so. No matter what he had just overheard, John was his best friend and Sherlock wanted, no needed, him back in his life. 

Sherlock composed himself, straightening up, inhaling deeply. He brought his chin up, shoulders back, another deep breath and opened the door. He walked through the corridor and up the stairs, making sure to avoid the steps that creaked. He set foot on the landing and stopped dead in the doorway.   
There was John, in the middle of the living room, his back to the door, right beside Sherlock's armchair. John's head was bent, one hand braced on the backrest of the leather armchair. He was breathing hard through his nose, his free hand rubbing at his face. Sherlock stood there for a few seconds, not knowing what to do, before he finally stepped into the room.   
“Mrs Hudson, I'll just need a moment, okay?” he heard John say in a strangled voice.   
“John...” Sherlock's own voice was rough. He saw John tensing up, standing completely still for a few seconds before he slowly turned around and his face fell. 

Sherlock saw all sorts of emotions crossing John's features in the next few seconds. There was astonishment followed by realization, grief followed by anger followed by grief again. John's fists clenched by his sides, head tilting a little.   
“Sherlock,” his voice was rough.   
“Hello John,” Sherlock tried to stay as calm as humanly possible, ignoring his racing heart and clenching gut as best as he could. John shut his eyes, inhaled deeply a few times and opened his eyes again. There was anger written all over his face now.   
“Why?” was all he wanted to know.   
“John, I... umm...,” Sherlock stammered, not knowing what to say. He took two steps into the living room when John stopped him with a look.  
“Why?”  
John's anger was written all over him, his rigid composure, clenching fists, tight jaw. There was so much hatred in his eyes that it nearly knocked Sherlock off his feet. Sherlock didn't know what to do so he tried for a joke about John's moustache. “Do you think that´s a good idea?” He gestured to his own upper lip.   
John's eyes narrowed into slits for a second before he suddenly rushed forward, grabbed Sherlock by the lapels and walked him backwards until he hit the wall beside the door.   
“You let me believe you're dead for two years and now you come back and make a bloody joke?” John yelled at him, face only inches from Sherlock's. John grabbed him harder and crashed Sherlock full force against the wall. “WHY?”  
Sherlock's head hit the wall so hard that he saw stars for a few seconds. John crashed him against the wall once more and he felt at least two of the wounds on his back ripping open. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tried to suppress a whimper, without success.  
There were footsteps on the stairs and Mrs Hudson's voice, “John? What's going on, up there?” She stalked through the door and stopped dead. Her face fell, just as John's before, but unlike John's, her expression changed to astonishment after a few seconds and then pure delight. She pressed both hands to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes, “Oh my god!”  
John finally let go of him and made room for Mrs Hudson, who pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. Sherlock winced and drew in a sharp breath when her hands pressed onto the wounds on his back through the thick fabric of his coat. She drew back immediately, “Sherlock, what's wrong?” Her face was full of concern.   
“Nothing,” he said, straightening up.   
“But you winced!”  
“I did no such thing, I'm fine.” Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. He looked suspicious, but said nothing. 

Sherlock spent the next fifteen minutes trying to convince Mrs Hudson that he was in fact fine, told her that he had to play dead because Moriarty was threatening his friends and told her very briefly where he had been, although he spared her all the ugly details of his journey. John was leaning against the wall beside the door with one shoulder, listening intently, but he didn't take part in the conversation at all. Sherlock glanced over at him every once in a while but found his expression unreadable.   
Sherlock wasn't able to convince Mrs Hudson that he was fine in the end, because when she finally left the flat she stared at John for full ten seconds. “Look after him, young man!”  
John didn't say a word but nodded once and closed the door behind her. He turned around slowly and locked eyes with Sherlock. They were silent for a long time before John finally opened his mouth.   
“What's wrong with you?” His voice was calm now.   
“Nothing, I'm fine.”  
“Still lying then.” John turned away from him and put his hand on the doorknob.   
“John, wait!” Sherlock could hear the slight panic in his own voice.   
John stopped with his back to Sherlock and waited.   
“It's, umm... it's just a minor injury. It's not worth all the fuss.”  
John turned around, “show me, then.”  
“That won't be necessary, it's fine.”  
John stepped closer, his expression getting harder. “Show me. Now.”  
Sherlock stared at John, chewing on his lower lip for a few seconds, before he finally slipped off his scarf and coat. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled that off too and John froze. Sherlock looked at him and recognized that he was staring into the mirror over the mantle.   
John stepped into his space. “Slip off your shirt,” his voice was hoarse.   
“John, it's nothing,” Sherlock tried one last time. John looked up into his eyes and this time his expression wasn't cold, he looked terribly worried, so Sherlock opened the buttons of his shirt and let it slip from his shoulders. It landed around his feet on the floor and that's when Sherlock understood. There were traces of blood all over the backside of the crisp white fabric.   
“Turn around,” John said quietly and this time Sherlock complied without a word. He heard John inhaling sharply as soon as he could see his back.   
“What happened to you, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock dropped his head, but his throat was too tight to get a single word out of it. He felt John's right hand touch his shoulder and looked up. Their eyes met in the mirror and what he saw in John's eyes made his chest clench. He looked incredibly sad, but there was something else, too. John's eyes were soft, even tender now.   
“Sit down at the kitchen table, I'll get the first aid kit.” John squeezed his shoulder once and went to the bathroom. Sherlock turned around to take a look at his back. Two of the wounds were bleeding, just like he thought. The others looked red and angry and there were bruises in all shades of the rainbow all over his back. He did as John had asked and sat down at the kitchen table, with his back to the sink. John came back from the bathroom, first aid kit in hand, eyes on the floor, not able to look Sherlock in the eyes. John stepped behind him and was quiet for long seconds before he opened the kit and started working methodically.   
They didn't talk while John cared for his wounds except some short remarks from John, “this needs stitches,” and “that didn't heal very well.” They had everything in the house that John needed to stitch him up properly, so he wouldn't need to go to a hospital, thank God. Sherlock said nothing, he just sat there, head bent, trying not to flinch every time John started cleaning another wound. He just tried to breathe, deep and calm, but couldn't prevent himself from flinching and whimpering here and there. 

When John was done cleaning, stitching and bandaging his injuries he slipped the rubber gloves off his hands and tugged at Sherlock's shoulder, to make him turn around on the chair. Sherlock complied but didn't look up, he just couldn't. He couldn't show John the tears prickling in his eyes.   
“Thank you, John, that was very kind,” he tried for nonchalance, but failed miserably.   
“Look at me,” John said quietly.   
When Sherlock didn't comply John hooked two fingers under his chin and made him look up. As soon as Sherlock saw the sadness in John's eyes the tears threatened to spill over and he swallowed hard.   
“What happened to you?” John whispered and stepped into the V of Sherlock's legs. That was it, one tear started rolling down Sherlock's cheek and the rest followed shortly afterwards. John slipped both arms around his shoulders, careful not to touch any of the injuries and bruises. He shoved one hand into Sherlock's curls and pulled him against his chest. Sherlock didn't resist, he just couldn't and pressed his face against John's sternum, right beside his heart. He felt John's grip tightening and slipped his own arms around John's middle, holding on to him like a drowning man. He wasn't sobbing, he just let the tears fall silently, soaking John's shirt. John stroked one hand soothingly through his curls, head bent, face nuzzled into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock wasn't sure but it felt like John pressed a kiss on top of his head every now and then and he closed his eyes, to catalogue all the new sensations in his mind palace.   
He had never been so close to John, had never felt John's arms around him before and he never wanted to let go again. John held him until the tears ran dry, until Sherlock relaxed slightly in John's arms. Sherlock untangled himself unwillingly and stood up, his bare chest nearly touching John's shirt.   
“I, umm,” he had to clear his throat, “I'll just get dressed.” He nodded in the general direction of the bedroom and John stepped back a bit to give him room.   
“Okay,” he heard John say when he walked down the corridor. 

Sherlock closed the bedroom door with a soft click. He sat down on the bed, his bed, for the first time after such a long time. He stroked one hand over the duvet and smiled. His bed, his room, his home. He got up to open the wardrobe. His suits and shirts were hanging in it as if he had never been away. He took a black shirt, just in case that one of the wounds started bleeding again and slipped it onto his shoulders. He took more time than strictly necessary to close the buttons, one after another and stood there for another minute or two, staring into the mirror before he finally opened the door and walked back into the kitchen. 

John was sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of steaming tea in front of him and one for Sherlock opposite on the table. Sherlock sat down on the same chair as before and pulled his mug closer. They sat in silence for a long while, drinking tea, looking everywhere but into each other's eyes. Sherlock desperately tried to gain enough courage to start talking but he really didn't know where to start.   
John glanced at his watch when Sherlock finally found the courage to speak.   
“John, umm, I wanted to tell you something..."  
“Oh, damnit, I have to go. I'm sorry Sherlock.”  
“What?”  
“I'm sorry but I have a date, I, erm,” John cleared his throat, “I'm going to propose to my girlfriend tonight,” he said a bit wryly.   
Sherlock's chest went tight, heart starting to beat rapidly.   
“You're... umm, what?” Sherlock was completely dumbfounded.   
“I'm going to propose to Mary, I have a ring and I'm already late, I'm sorry,” John got up from his chair.  
“You're going to propose... Still?”  
“What do you mean still?” John looked puzzled.   
“I... umm,” Sherlock's eyebrows drew together on their own volition. “You... I...,” he stumbled, not knowing what to say next.   
“You can tell me tomorrow, alright?” John said.   
Sherlock looked up puzzled, “tell you?”  
“You just said you wanted to tell me something.”  
Sherlock looked at him for a long minute, swallowing hard, “Yes,” he said, voice hoarse, “tomorrow.”  
John got up, came around the table and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.   
“Are you okay for tonight?” he asked quietly.   
Sherlock's throat was completely tight but he managed a hoarse “yes” anyway.   
“Are you sure?”  
Sherlock just nodded, he wasn't able to say another word.   
John's hand moved to the back of his neck and squeezed lightly. “Okay. I'll be back in the morning, alright?”  
Sherlock didn't say anything, he just reveled in the feeling of John's hand on his neck and breathed. 

John squeezed one more time before he went to the door. He was already half through it when he turned around again, looking at Sherlock intently. He opened his mouth and then shut it again.   
“See you tomorrow, then," he finally said and turned on his heels, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock sat there, feeling completely numb. He heard John's footsteps descending the stairs and still felt John's warm hand on his skin. John went down the stairs and then suddenly stopped on the half-landing. Sherlock looked up, straining his ears. John was still on the landing after a minute, not moving, so Sherlock got up from his chair and walked to the door. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and waited. John didn't move for a long time and Sherlock prayed, to a God he didn't believe in, that John would come back. After what felt like an eternity John started moving again, but he went downstairs. Sherlock dropped his head to his chest, leaning his forehead heavily against the door. He braced both hands against it and felt bile rising up his throat. He swallowed hard a few times, trying to get his breathing back under control.   
'Tomorrow'


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock turned around in slow-motion, eyes fixed on John's half empty mug on the table. He stared and stared, his mind completely blank except for one sentence that was spinning in circles in his head, _'I'm going to propose to my girlfriend tonight'._  
Sherlock felt sick, blood rushing in his ears. He stalked over to the table, grabbed the mug and smashed it full force against the wall above the sink, shards and tea splattering everywhere.  
He stood there, heart racing, chest heaving, trying to get himself back under control before he turned to take a look at the living room, but all he saw was John's chair in the middle of the room and he shook his head violently, pressing the heels of his hands onto his eyes.  
Sherlock stalked into the living room looking for his violin case that he found on the desk between the windows. He needed to occupy his mind with something else, anything else than thinking about John and his proposal to some woman Sherlock didn´t even know. 

He opened the violin case with shaking hands. There it was, his beautiful Stradivarius. Long fingers caressed the strings softly before taking the bow in hand, feeling the weight of it between still calloused fingertips. Sherlock tightened the bow and then took the violin out.  
He looked at it in awe for a few seconds before he lifted it up to his chin to tune the instrument. Closing his eyes, breathing deeply he set the bow onto the strings and started playing with shaking hands. He wanted to play one of his favourite pieces, one that he had known since he was a little boy, one that he had always played out of his memory without hesitation, but his hands refused to obey. He heard the insecurity in his own playing and stopped the bow. Sherlock tried to breath deep and calm for a minute before he tried again, bow on the strings, starting with the first notes again, but the result was the same, his hands were shaking and he couldn´t feel the music in his bones like he used to. It felt different, like this was not his violin but somebody else´s. He had always felt an instant connection when he played his violin, as if the instrument was part of his own body. Now, something wasn't right. He put it down on the table in frustration.

Sherlock stared out of the window over the familiar street without really seeing anything for a long time. His mind was still full of John, of what he had said, of what he had done, how he had cared for Sherlock, how he had held him in his arms, how John`s fingers had stroked through the curls on Sherlock`s head.  
"God!" Sherlock yelled in frustration and stalked over to the kitchen to find his microscope in the cupboard above the sink, placing it on its usual spot on the kitchen table. Sherlock sat down and desperately tried to come up with an experiment he could start, just anything to distract him, but all his mind provided was John looking after his wounds, John holding him, John's warm hand on the back of his neck. John, John, John. 

He got up in a rush, the legs of the chair scratching loudly over the floor before it toppled over and landed on the floor with a loud bang. A few hours ago, all he wanted to do was being back at Baker Street, feeling at home again. Now that he was here he wanted to be anywhere else, because everything in here reminded him of John. John who was preparing to propose to someone else right now. John, who he had lost a second time today, to some random woman. But a woman John had chosen, above him. Well, not exactly above him, since John had believed Sherlock dead until today. But John had just decided to propose to her anyway. And Sherlock couldn't blame him, not really. John wasn't gay and Sherlock was his friend and former flatmate, nothing more, so there was no reason for him not to propose.

Sherlock finally decided to leave the flat. There were a few other people he wanted to see, that needed to know that he was still alive. Molly above all, who was the only one, beside Mycroft, who knew that his suicide two years ago was fake.  
He went to St. Barts, a shiver running through his body when he reached the place where everything had turned for the worse, back then. He looked up to the roof, remembering seeing John standing down in the street, looking desperately up at Sherlock on the edge of the roof. He remembered the look on John`s face when he had seen Sherlock lying on the floor after the fall, covered in blood. He remembered John`s voice, desperately trying to reach for Sherlock´s wrist to check for a pulse, remembered him slumping down against some woman, the look in his eyes absolutely devastated.  
Sherlock shook his head, desperately trying to get rid of the memories that haunted him in his sleep, beside all the other memories that did the same.

He went inside, hiding in the locker room because he didn't want to be seen by anyone else, since his resurrection wasn't official yet and there were too many people who might recognize him in this building. When Molly came in she was startled to see him for a second but then wrapped him up in her arms immediately. She asked him a thousand questions, about his well being, his time away, if he had seen John already. Sherlock answered her as briefly as possible but she seemed to recognize that something wasn't right. She had always seen more than anyone else in him. And she asked a lot of questions about John that he tried to avoid. She seemed to know anyway. Was he really so obvious that even Molly could see that his feelings for John were more than he himself had always admitted?

After Molly had finally let him go Sherlock went to the Yard to find Lestrade. The man didn't seem to be too surprised that Sherlock was still alive, pulling him into a bear hug as soon as he saw him, but fortunately he didn't hit any of the more severe wounds on his back. He talked to Lestrade briefly, only giving him a general overview about what had happened during the last two years and why. Lestrade wanted to invite him over for dinner to his place, but Sherlock refused, he just didn´t have the nerve for friendly chatting tonight. 

After leaving Lestrade Sherlock walked through the streets of London for what felt like ages. He visited all the places he was so familiar with and tried to forget that John was just having a date with a woman that would possibly spend the rest of her life with him. Sherlock should have been this person. He wanted to be the one person for John, the one John wanted to spend the rest of his life with, the one person John wanted to come home to every night, but it was too late. Sherlock had been dead and John had gone on with his life. Maybe if Sherlock would have come back earlier, maybe if he would have been quicker with dismantling Moriarty's network. Maybe if he would have been cleverer two years ago, none of that would have been necessary at all.  
Maybe, maybe, maybe, but Sherlock hadn't been better or quicker or more clever. He had missed his chance and to be fair, he probably never really had one. Then again, what he had seen in those alleys two years ago had actually happened and there must have been a reason for John's behaviour, but that was of no use now. When John would visit him in the morning he would already be engaged.  
Sherlock nearly ripped his hair out with all the thoughts and ifs and whens running through his head. It was stupid, useless. He had lost John and he would never get him back. He knew that he would have never been more than a friend to John, but being his friend, his flatmate, it would have been enough. Sherlock would give everything to have John back in his life, to get back what they used to have. It would be enough, it had to be. And now he didn't even have this. 

When his mind finally stopped spinning he recognized that he was back in Baker Street, only a few feet away from the front door of 221b. His subconscious must have taken him back. Sherlock checked his watch, half past ten in the evening and he was freezing. He hadn't even recognized how cold it had become. He sighed and opened the front door. Sherlock was so tired, he just wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep for days on end, but he was too frightened to do so, afraid of the nightmares that would certainly haunt his sleep.  
If only John was here, they could have tea, they could sit in front of the fire, John could tap away on his laptop and drive him nuts with his two-finger typing-style, Sherlock would insult his typing and his over romanticising and John would probably yell at him at some point. Sherlock smiled at the memories, his only wish was to go back to that. Life had been easy back then, it had been fun. They had always understood each other without a lot of words, without discussing everything. They just knew how the other worked and they fit together, as good as two people as different as them could ever fit.  
His smile faded when he remembered that it would never be like that again. 

Sherlock climbed the stairs with his heart heavy in his chest when he recognized that something was different. The doors to the flat were closed, like Sherlock had left them but there was light shining under the threshold and he was pretty sure that there was a fire in the mantle. Not an intruder then, they rarely made fire in the mantle to welcome him home. There was only one person beside himself that ever made fire in the mantle and Sherlock's heart started pounding rapidly.  
John was here. 

Sherlock took a deep steadying breath before he opened the door to the living room. John was sitting in his armchair in a white shirt, black suit jacket and tie over the armrest of his chair. There was a cup of tea on the side table beside a little box in red velvet. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and John turned around.  
“You've shaved it off,” was the first thing that came out of Sherlock's mouth and he cursed himself as soon as he had said it. John's left hand joltet up to rub along his upper lip where the moustache had been.  
“Yeah, someone told me it was a bad idea,” he grinned wryly. Sherlock looked down to his feet to hide the little grin on his own face but he was sure John saw it anyway.  
“What are you doing here, John?” Sherlock's voice was quiet, afraid of the answer he might get. Afraid that John might get angry again like earlier that day. John got up from his chair and gestured for Sherlock to sit down. He himself went to the kitchen to fetch two glasses and the bottle of scotch that was still on the upper shelf. Sherlock got rid of his coat, scarf and jacket and sat down, careful not to put too much pressure on his back, when John came back to hand him a glass of scotch. Sherlock stared at the ring box for a few seconds before he looked up to meet John's eyes. John was watching him intently, eyes drawn tight.  
“You...,” Sherlock had to clear his throat, “you haven't...,” he made a vague gesture with his left hand in the general direction of the ring box.  
“No,” John said very calm, “I couldn't.”  
Sherlock nodded, not meeting John`s eyes.  
“What about... Mary?” Sherlock tilted his head a little, as if unsure about the name. As if he could ever forget that name.  
“Let's not talk about her right now, okay?” John sat back down in his own chair. They stayed quiet for long seconds, avoiding each other's gaze before John cleared his throat.  
“I've cleaned up the mess in the kitchen,” he said quietly, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock looked up, embarrassed, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, not knowing what to say.  
“I shouldn't have left you tonight,” John continued and Sherlock's heart missed a beat.  
“You had no obligation to stay.”  
“That's not true,” John's gaze was intense.  
Sherlock looked down, only now remembering the glass in his hands and took a sip of whisky that burned in his throat.  
"How is your back?" John wanted to know.  
"It´s fine," Sherlock said vaguely. He didn´t want to tell John how much it hurt, especially the wounds that were ripped open today.

“You played?” John asked after another minute of silence, nodding at the violin on the desk.  
“I tried,” Sherlock said, staring at his own hands.  
“But?”  
“I couldn't,” Sherlock whispered, still not meeting John's gaze. He felt John's eyes on him and his heart rate sped up again. John was quiet for a long time, studying Sherlock intently. He probably saw Sherlock´s nervousness in the way he avoided John´s gaze and in the way his hands fidgeted with the glass in his hands and Sherlock was afraid to what conclusions he might come.  
“Play for me,” John said after a long while and Sherlock finally looked up. John's eyes were soft and there was a tiny little smile on his lips. Sherlock braced himself before he got up and walked over to the desk. His hands were shaking again when he picked up the instrument, tightened the bow and raised the violin to his chin for the second time that day. He turned to the window, so that he was facing away from John. Sherlock's hands were still shaking when he raised the bow to hold it above the strings. He knew what he wanted to play instantly, one of John's favourites, a classical piece he knew by heart. So he started playing the first notes but his hands were still shaking and it transferred into the music again. He stopped, lowering the bow, trying to breath deeply to calm his racing heart. He held the bow up and started again but the result was the same, it didn´t sound right and John must have heard it too, because the next thing Sherlock recognised was John getting up from his armchair and walking over to him. He stepped right behind Sherlock, so close that Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from John's body through the thin fabric of his black shirt.  
“I'm here,” John whispered and placed a hand tentatively on Sherlock's left hip, stepping so close that his chest was nearly touching Sherlock´s back. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He could feel John´s warm breath ghosting over his neck and tried to breath in the same rhythm.  
“You're safe,” he heard John whisper right beside his ear and Sherlock raised the bow again, eyes still closed and started to play. His hands were completely calm all of a sudden, despite the racing heart in his chest. Sherlock played the first verse without so much as a hitch, followed by the second and the third. When he was finished he lowered the violin and bow and opened his eyes.  
“Thank you," Sherlock whispered and he felt a light squeeze on his hip. They stood there for a while, neither man saying a word. John's hand never left his hip and Sherlock leaned into the touch, just a little bit. 

“You could sleep in your old room tonight,” Sherlock offered after a while. When John didn't answer he panicked slightly, “I mean, it's pretty late already, umm...”  
“Yeah, I might do that, if you don't mind,” John finally answered, but he sounded a bit sad? Disappointed? Sherlock was too afraid to turn around and look at John, so he could just guess from the tone in his voice. They stayed silent for another long while, before John squeezed his hip once more, “I might just go to bed then.”  
“Okay,” Sherlock whispered, heart pounding.  
John seemed to step away from him reluctantly, his hand slipping off Sherlock's hip so very slowly.  
“Good night, then,” John said and made his way to the door.  
Sherlock turned around, “John...”  
“Yeah?” Was that hope in John's eyes?  
Sherlock inhaled deeply, the lump that had formed in his throat preventing him from saying anything else. He swallowed hard before he finally managed a strangled “Good night.”  
Whatever it was he had seen in John's eyes vanished at his words but his expression was soft nonetheless. John nodded once before he turned around to walk up the stairs to his old room. 

Sherlock stayed behind, not knowing what to make of this. His eyes wandered to the little velvet box on the table beside John's chair. Would that have been his chance tonight? Should he have told John what he really wanted to say? Or would that have been the worst of all possible times, since John had made a drawback from proposing to someone else tonight. Sherlock really didn't know and he got frustrated. 

He put the violin back in it's case and paced the flat before he finally went to the bedroom to change into an old t-shirt and well worn pyjama bottoms. He put his favourite blue dressing gown on and went back to the living room. Sherlock settled in his armchair eventually, hands coming together in his usual thinking position to access his mind palace. He wanted to relive what had happened in the afternoon, John caring for him, holding him, John`s hand stroking Sherlock's hair, pressing soft kisses onto the top of Sherlock's head. He could feel the fabric of John's shirt against his cheek, could smell John's scent. He smelled like aftershave and tea and something uniquely John, something that smelled like home. He could feel John's strong arms around his shoulders, the heat of John's hands on his skin, John`s heart beating strong in his chest.  
He thought about John standing behind him while he played the violin, about John´s hand on his hip, John´s chest nearly touching his own back, John´s breath against the skin of his neck. John.

When Sherlock emerged from his mind palace some indefinite time later, his cheeks were wet, eyes burning from the tears he had obviously shed, but he felt much calmer. He was incredibly tired but he didn't want to sleep, still too frightened. It was half past two in the morning, way to go until the morning, so he went to the kitchen to make tea before he picked up his violin again. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, imagining John standing behind him, before he raised his bow and started playing. This time his hands weren't shaking, not at all. He was playing as secure as he ever had, the score emerging easily from his memory. Sherlock was deep in his own thoughts, playing the third piece in a row without hesitation when he sensed John in the room. He finished the piece before he turned around to meet John's eyes. The man looked a bit disheveled, wearing an old t-shirt and some track bottoms that must have still been in the wardrobe upstairs. John´s eyes were as soft as when he had left earlier, a sad little smile on his lips.  
“I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you,” Sherlock apologized. John took a good look at him.  
“When was the last time you slept, Sherlock?”  
Instead of answering Sherlock put the violin back in its case, avoiding John's eyes, knowing that the man knew the truth anyways, no matter what he told him.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Last night, like anyone else,” Sherlock told him, still not meeting his eyes.  
“Liar,” John said and Sherlock's head snapped up, but John's expression was fond.  
“Nightmares?” John asked. Sherlock nodded, eyes on the floor, hands worrying with the hem of his dressing gown. John left his place by the door and stepped closer, waiting beside his armchair.  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
Sherlock looked up into John's eyes and found them soft again. He walked over to his own chair and they sat down together. When Sherlock didn´t start talking, John did.  
"How often?" he asked quietly.  
"Almost every night," Sherlock whispered.  
"How bad?"  
Sherlock inhaled deeply, "terrible."  
They stayed quiet for a long time, before John spoke again.  
"Are you going to tell me what happened to you? What you have done during the last two years?"  
"I already told Mrs Hudson, you were there." Sherlock stared at him, trying to prevent John from digging deeper.  
John`s lips tightened. "I´m not asking for the official version, Sherlock."  
Sherlock stared at him, but John held his gaze.  
"I know," he whispered. "Not tonight."  
John nodded his understanding. "You need to sleep, Sherlock, you look terribly exhausted."  
"I can´t," Sherlock turned his head to look away, trying to swallow down the tears prickling in his eyes.  
"Your body needs to heal, Sherlock."  
"I know."  
John looked at him intently, "do you want me to sleep in your room tonight?"  
Sherlock avoided John´s gaze even harder at those words. If he was completely honest with himself, this was exactly what he wanted. But he didn´t trust himself, didn´t know what he would do in his weakened state if John was so close to him. Sherlock was afraid of himself, afraid he couldn´t hold himself back then, so he did the only thing he could, he refused.  
"That won´t be necessary, John."  
"Are you sure?"  
Sherlock´s throat was tight, so he just nodded.  
"Okay, but you need to go to bed now, doctor´s orders," John insisted.  
Sherlock drew in a breath, exasperated.  
"I`m not a child, John."  
"No, but you were never the best person to look after yourself." There was an amused undertone in John´s voice and Sherlock smiled a bit.  
"Okay," he finally gave in and got up from his chair. John did the same and they walked into the kitchen together.  
“Good night, Sherlock,” John said quietly and squeezed his upper arm.  
“Good night,” Sherlock looked into John's eyes before he made his way to the bedroom. John waited in the doorway to the staircase until Sherlock had closed the door to his bedroom before he went up the stairs. Sherlock lay down between the familiar sheets, closed his eyes and drifted off almost immediately, his body finally giving in.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock opened his eyes but there was nothing but blackness, everywhere around him. The air was icecold, dampness crawling under his skin, making him shiver. There was noise everywhere, so much noise, dogs barking, men shouting, a helicopter somewhere above his head, gunshots. He was running, running for his life. And he was scared, scared to death. The cold sweat of fear on his skin mingled with the hot sweat from the effort of running through the night. He was in a forest and he could hardly see his own hand in front of his face. There were twigs everywhere, hitting his face, scratching at his skin.   
Someone was calling his name, ‘Sherlock, Sherlock,’ again and again. But this voice was different than the ones shouting behind him, this voice was soft and it seemed to be right beside his ear, ‘Sherlock.’  
The other voices were shouting in some foreign language. There were gunshots again and he ducked his head out of reflex, dogs barking right behind him and he tripped over something on the ground, he stumbled, desperately trying to catch himself and then he was falling, his face hit the ground hard. He landed in the middle of a muddy puddle, cold wetness soaking his clothes, he could feel it on his skin. Men shouting, dogs barking, the clicking of weapons in the ready. His heart was racing, blood rushing in his ears and he was shaking violently. He could hardly breath with his face pressed against the ground, and suddenly this soft voice again ‘Sherlock,’ more insistent this time. 

He opened his eyes, there was a faint light somewhere. Where did it come from? Must be a torch from one of the men behind him. He blinked rapidly but couldn't really see anything. The air was warmer now, the dampness suddenly gone, but he felt still icecold.   
“Sherlock, you're safe.”  
He knew this voice, he trusted it. He was lying on his front, face pressed into something soft and only now did he recognize that he was screaming. He stopped, his throat hoarse. He blinked.   
“Sherlock, you're at home.”  
 _Home_  
This was John's voice.  
There was no mud under his body anymore, nothing cold and wet against his skin, he was not in a forest, he was in bed, his own bed, he was in 221b. He could smell the familiar scent of his own pillow, recognized the soft texture of the sheets under his hands.   
“Sherlock, it's me, John. You're at home in Baker Street and you are safe.”  
“John,” he whispered hoarsely into the fabric in front of his face.   
“Yes, Sherlock, I'm here,” John told him. 

Sherlock turned to his side very slowly. John kneeled on the bed beside him, face full of concern. Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position. There was cold sweat all over his body. He pulled his knees up to his chest, slipping both arms around his shins, hiding his face between his knees.   
John's warm hand careful on his shoulder. Sherlock was shaking like a leaf, his heart still pounding rapidly, breathing much too fast. John crawled behind him, slipped his arms carefully around Sherlock's waist. “You're safe,” he whispered into Sherlock's ear.   
_Safe_   
He hadn't been safe for far too long. 

John pressed his chest carefully against Sherlock's back, his arms tightening around his waist, face pressed against the skin below Sherlock's ear.   
“I'm here,” John whispered and Sherlock was shaking. He could feel tears running down his own cheeks. He was crying. He has never cried so much in his life than during the last two years, not even as a little child and he hated himself for it. Hated his weakness.   
Sherlock felt warm lips against the skin right below his earlobe and he closed his eyes. John's hands were stroking his chest and belly. Sherlock's breathing was getting less frantic, heartrate slowing down, the violent shaking changed into slight trembling. Another kiss from John, on top of his shoulder this time. They stayed like this for ages. John started rocking him slightly at some point and it actually helped, it was soothing. He felt like a little child in John`s arms but he couldn´t care less right now. He felt safe. He felt at home. 

They stayed like this until Sherlock's heartrate and breathing were back to normal, until the tears and sweat had dried on his skin. John tugged at his shoulder then, “come here,” he whispered and made him lie down. John lay down beside him, pulled him close.   
“John, you don't have to...”  
“Sshhh.”  
Sherlock put his head on John's chest, right beside his heart. John's arms came around his torso and Sherlock pressed his body against John's. He could hear John's heart beating in his chest, strong and steady, John's scent in his nostrils.   
_Safe_  
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, engulfed by John. 

Sherlock woke up in the early morning hours. It was still dark outside, November after all, but he could hear traffic noise coming through the closed window. Not too early in the morning then. For the first time in ages he felt safe when he woke up. He felt as if everything was right, maybe for the first time ever. His head was still lying on John's chest where he could feel the soft fabric of John's worn t-shirt under his cheek. John's heart was beating in a calm rhythm and this was the single most soothing thing Sherlock had ever experienced. Sherlock's right arm was thrown over John's torso, his right leg tangled loosely with John's. John's body so very warm against Sherlock's.  
He wanted to stay like this for the rest of his life, never wanted to let go. He remembered what had happened during the night, his nightmare, John holding him, stroking his belly, kissing his neck and warmth spread in Sherlock's chest for the first time in his life. He wanted to stay here in this bed, pressed against John, breathing him in, but he couldn't, he had to get up. He couldn't let John wake up like this, with Sherlock half on top of him.   
What would John be thinking? 

Sherlock untangled his limbs from John`s and got out of bed, careful not to wake him. He fetched his dressing gown from the back of the door and took one last look at John lying in bed. He looked so soft when he was sleeping. Sherlock left the room reluctantly and went into the kitchen. He made tea and sat down at the kitchen table in front of his microscope. He wanted to look occupied when John got up, give him the chance to not having to talk about what had happened during the night. Sherlock tried to come up with some experiment he could work on but he couldn't think of anything.   
He went into the living room and saw the ring box on the table beside John's armchair. He took it and carried it over to the mantle, placed it beside the skull. He walked to the window and looked out over Baker Street, tried to deduce the few people that were already outside at that time of the day but his mind refused to work. He went to the mantle again and put the ring box back on the side table, then went back to his microscope.   
Sherlock was on the brink of panicking when John emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later. He padded down the corridor and into the kitchen on bare feet and stopped right behind Sherlock.   
“Morning,” John said softly and slipped one hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock had to clear his throat.   
“Good morning, John.”  
John leaned down a little, “are you alright?”  
“Yes.”  
John squeezed his neck and stayed where he was. Sherlock tried to breathe evenly, which was nearly impossible with John's hand on his neck.   
"What are you doing, new experiment?" John asked lightly, as if his hand on Sherlock`s neck was something completely normal, something they did every day. Sherlock swallowed hard before he could speak. "Yes, something about Mycroft`s case," he said, gesturing vaguely.  
“Breakfast?” John asked. Sherlock just nodded and John gave him another squeeze before he walked around the table to make tea and toast. 

They ate in silence, Sherlock desperately trying to avoid John's gaze. He could hardly swallow around the lump in his throat but he tried as best as he could because he knew that John wanted him to eat. When they were finished John got up, “I'll just have a quick shower. I have to work today and need to go back to my flat for some fresh clothes.”  
“Okay,” Sherlock tried for a small smile but it didn´t reach his eyes.

After John was gone Sherlock felt lost. He had a shower, got dressed and paced the flat restlessly and for once in his life he was glad that Mycroft dropped by. They played some silly games from their childhood and talked about the case of this underground network Mycroft wanted him to investigate. Mrs Hudson came upstairs at some point and brought tea and biscuits and he was glad about that too. Sherlock spent the rest of the day working on the case and tried not to think about John. Not at all. 

John came back in the evening and he brought takeaway from the Thai place around the corner. He also brought his doctor´s case and a little bag that he placed in the corner beside the sofa without a word. Sherlock didn't acknowledge it but he smiled. They had dinner directly out of the boxes on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table in front of them. Sherlock talked about the case and John told him about his day at work, just like in the old days. Sherlock reveled in it, in their familiar interaction, the easy chatting, the takeaway on the sofa, the comfortable silence afterwards. That was exactly what he had missed so much and he hoped against hope that it could be like this again. 

They cleared the table together and made tea afterwards.  
"Hey, I`d like to check your wounds and change the bandages, okay? I`ll just go and get my bag." John told him and walked off to the living room.  
"Okay," Sherlock took the teabags out of the mugs and added milk to John´s and milk and sugar to his own, before he slipped off his shirt and waited beside the kitchen counter.  
When John came back he stopped for a split second in the doorway and looked at Sherlock with an expression Sherlock couldn´t quite read before he stepped closer.  
John grinned up at him, "sit down, you lanky git."  
Sherlock complied with a smile and bent over a bit, so that John got better access to his back. John washed his hands and slipped some rubber gloves on. He peeled off the bandages carefully and examined his back before he applied ointment to several wounds.  
"That looks better than yesterday." John applied new bandages on the more severe wounds.  
"How is the pain?" he asked silently when he pulled the gloves off.  
"Not too bad," Sherlock told him and meant it this time, it had actually gone better with the help of some pain medication he had taken during the day. John stood beside him for a long minute, looking down at him, neither man saying a word, before Sherlock cleared his throat, "the tea is..."  
"Yes." John fetched their mugs while Sherlock pulled his shirt back on. They went back to the sofa together and switched on the TV to watch some random program and chatted about this and that. Sherlock didn't ask about the bag in the corner, he didn't ask about Mary and he didn't ask if John would stay overnight again. He wanted him to stay, more than anything, wanted to wake up in John's arms again but he was too afraid to ask. Too afraid to tell him what he really wanted to say.

When John started yawning beside him about an hour later, Sherlock's heart was in his throat. He didn't want John to go and tried to come up with a reason to make him stay but pulled completely blank.   
“Would you mind if I stay over tonight again?” John asked and startled Sherlock out of his thoughts.   
Sherlock looked at him in awe and cleared his throat twice before a sound came out of his mouth. “Of course not, it's your room.”  
John grinned a bit wryly, nodded and leaned down to rummage in his bag. When he got up he had pyjama trowsers, a t-shirt and a tooth brush in his hands and went to the bathroom. John came back a few minutes later, waiting in the kitchen, “your turn.”  
“Umm, I…” Sherlock swallowed, “I'm not tired.”  
“Liar,” John grinned, “come on, off you go.”  
Sherlock sighed but went to the bathroom eventually to brush his teeth and change into pyjama bottoms, t-shirt and dressing gown. When he walked out into the corridor John was leaning against the kitchen table, hands braced on the surface, looking at him a bit awkward.   
“Umm, good night then,” Sherlock said, looking into John's eyes through his lashes.   
“Sherlock?”  
“Yes?”  
“I, erm... I was wondering if you would feel safer if I slept in your room tonight?”  
Sherlock's heart started racing.   
“It's not like this every night,” Sherlock gestured in the general direction of the bedroom.   
“But I could wake you much earlier, before it gets too bad.”  
“Umm, John… you... you don't have to do this.”  
“But I want to...”

They looked into each other's eyes for long seconds. When Sherlock finally nodded John pushed off the table and walked down the corridor. Sherlock turned around to lead the way to the bedroom. He closed the door behind John and switched on the bedside lamp.  
"Do you have a preferred side?" John asked.  
"The one closer to the door."  
"Okay," John walked around the bed and pulled the duvet and sheets back.  
"Coming?" he glanced at Sherlock.  
"Yes," Sherlock said quietly and pulled the dressing gown off his shoulders. They slipped under the covers together, Sherlock on his side facing John to avoid pressure on his back. He lay down as close to the edge of the bed as he could manage, while John lay comfortably on his back, looking at the ceiling. After a minute John sighed and turned around to face him.  
"You`re going to fall out of that bed if you move another inch backwards," he grinned.  
Sherlock smiled a bit embarrassed but shuffled closer.   
"Can I ask you something about last night?" John asked quietly. Sherlock nodded so John went on.  
"You were talking in your sleep while you were dreaming, screaming actually, but it wasn´t English, sounded eastern European..." John´s eyebrows were drawn together.  
"Serbian," Sherlock whispered.  
"What happened?"  
"In my dream or in reality?" Sherlock wanted to know.  
"Is there a big difference?"  
"No," Sherlock breathed and closed his eyes. He didn´t want to go back to that place, didn´t want to remember what had happened only a few days ago, but John of all people had a right to know. He inhaled deeply and braced himself when John suddenly took his hand and squeezed. Sherlock´s eyes snapped open, staring at their joined hands. He tightened his own hand around John´s, squeezing back. He inhaled one more time before he started talking, voice even, desperately trying not to let any of the feelings overwhelm him.

"I was in Serbia, trying to infiltrate the last known part of Moriarty`s network. I did some undercover work in a paramilitary organization but something went wrong. Someone must have recognized that I`m not the man I pretended to be. They were stationed in an abandonded bunker in a forest in the middle of nowhere. I thought my chances to escape would be quite reasonable if I tried to run away at night, but they recognized my disappearance too quickly and followed me. They had dogs and guns and even a helicopter with an infrared camera on board, so I didn´t really have a chance. I got caught about two hours after my escape. One of the guys wanted to execute me right then and there and had the barrel of his Kalashnikov pressed to my forehead, but their boss stopped him. They threw me into a dungeon somewhere inside that bunker, chained me to the wall and beat the hell out of me. They tried to find out who I was, why I was there, what I was trying to do. They were holding me hostage for almost two weeks before Mycroft came and intervened."

Sherlock said all this without so much as a pause to breathe while John watched him intently, hand squeezing hard. There were tears prickling behind Sherlock`s eyes but he refused to let them go.  
"When did that happen?" John wanted to know.  
"About three weeks ago," Sherlock whispered.  
John inhaled deeply beside him and squeezed his hand even harder. He shuffled closer to Sherlock, so that their faces were only inches apart.  
"There are older scars too, ..." John said.  
"Yes," Sherlock whispered and squeezed his eyes shut. One tear rolled down his cheek, despite Sherlock's best efforts. He was silent for a long minute before he whispered, "not tonight, John."  
John´s hand moved up along his arm to the back of Sherlock´s neck and he could feel John`s forehead pressing against his own.  
"You are safe now, you know that, right?" John whispered. Sherlock nodded but couldn´t say anything else, instead he slipped his arm around John´s torso and pulled him closer. John tightened the grip around his neck and pressed a kiss to his forehead.  
"I`ve missed you," John whispered.  
Sherlock hid his face in the crook of John`s neck and finally let the tears fall. He felt John's arms slipping around his shoulders, holding him tight. One hand was at the back of Sherlock´s head, caressing tenderly.  
"I missed you too," Sherlock mumbled into the crook of John`s neck, "more than anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kudos, they make me incredibly happy!   
> If you like this story I would love a short comment.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke up by something he couldn´t identify right away. He was lying on his front, face to the door, blinking his eyes open slowly, trying to focus. In his sleep-drugged state it took him a few seconds to recognize the soft fingertips caressing the small of his back. His t-shirt must have ridden up during the night, since the lower half of his torso was exposed. It took him another minute to recognize exactly what John was doing. He was tracing the scars, one after another, so very tenderly.  
Sherlock turned his head slowly, giving John enough time to stop what he was doing, so that they could pretend it hadn't happened, but John did no such thing. He was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow when Sherlock locked eyes with him. The expression in John`s eyes was fond, but there was a deep sadness underneath. John smiled, just a small smile and went on caressing his skin.  
"You have been stabbed," John whispered and pressed his fingers lightly to the knobbly scar above Sherlock's right hipbone.  
"You have been whipped," he traced the fine lines criss-crossing his lower back.  
"And you have been shot."  
"Just a graze shot," Sherlock whispered.  
"Are there more?" John looked at him sadly.  
Sherlock didn´t want to make him even sadder, but it was probably now or never.  
"Upper right leg," he said and John pulled the sheets away slowly. Sherlock pushed his pyjama trousers down a bit so that John could see the upper part of his thigh.  
"Another graze shot," John mumbled and traced his fingers lightly over the angry red scar on the side of Sherlock`s thigh. Sherlock closed his eyes at the sensation, shivering a bit. John's fingers on his skin felt incredible and he wanted more, wanted his hands everywhere, wanted it so badly.   
"What else?" John wanted to know and dragged Sherlock out of his thoughts before his body could start responding to John's touch.   
Sherlock pulled his trousers back up.   
"Right ankle," he stretched his foot out from under the sheet so that John could see the scar of a dog bite. Then he rolled over to show him his already exposed belly.  
"Two more stab wounds," John mumbled and traced his fingers along the two scars above Sherlock`s left hip bone.  
"Is that it?" John looked at him with tears in his eyes.  
"If you mean the ones that are visible on my skin... then yes," Sherlock whispered.  
John stopped tracing the scars and laid his hand on Sherlock's belly instead, thumb moving slowly along his skin. Sherlock wanted him never to stop what he was doing and his heartrate went up. John stared at him for a long time before he spoke again.   
"How many times did you nearly die during the last two years?"  
Sherlock exhaled, "it really wasn´t that bad, John."  
"Are you kidding? I`m a doctor and a soldier, remember?"  
Sherlock dropped his gaze.  
"Why didn´t you tell me back then? I could have come with you, I could have saved you from all this?" John sounded desperate, his hand gesturing furiously above Sherlock's body.   
"You really couldn´t, John. They would have killed you and I couldn't let that happen. Never, John."  
"I nearly died anyway after your suicide, Sherlock."

They stared into each other´s eyes, the tension in the room palpable, when a vibration of Sherlock`s mobile phone interrupted them. Sherlock took it from the nightstand just as it vibrated once more. He opened the two texts he had received, one from Mycroft asking about his progress in the case, the second one from his homeless network, giving him a hint about the terror cell he was looking for.   
He checked the watch, it was past eight already. When was the last time he had slept so long without startling up from his dreams? Did he have a nightmare during the night? He remembered something vaguely, he had actually dreamed about something scary, but he hadn't woken up in panic like usually. Had John soothed him in his sleep? He really couldn't tell. Another vibration of the phone interrupted his thoughts. Sherlock checked the picture someone had sent him and something clicked in his mind.  
"John!"  
"What?" They sat up in bed simultaneously.  
"Look at that." Sherlock showed him the picture of a man emerging from a tube station.  
John craned his neck, "who`s that?"  
Sherlock grinned at him, "that could be a lead in the case." Sherlock jumped out of bed, "come on, John!"  
John sighed, "and here I sit, thinking I could get some breakfast today," he shook his head, grinning. Sherlock grinned back, "don´t be boring, John."  
John chuckled, got out of bed and followed Sherlock into the living room. 

They worked on the case for most of the morning together, but John had a shift at the surgery in the afternoon, so Sherlock`s luck didn´t last forever. Before John left he picked up the ring box, that was still lying on the table beside his armchair, looking a bit unsure.  
"I have to finish something," he said and tucked the box into the pocket of his trousers.  
Sherlock felt a stab in his chest. So he was going to propose to Mary, after all. The things that had happened during the last two days didn´t mean anything beside the fact that John was a good friend. It probably wasn´t even that. John was a doctor and he needed to care for people, always had, so Sherlock had probably just been a patient for him, someone he could try to heal.  
"See you later, then," John startled him out of his thoughts.  
"Yes," Sherlock swallowed hard, "see you later."

After John was gone, Sherlock kept on working. He tried not to think about John anymore, not about the fact that he was probably just proposing to that woman today. It was of no use anymore, obviously. He had hoped that there would still be a chance, that they could go back to the life they've had before the fall, but that chance was apparently gone now. Sherlock tried to clear his mind of all those unnecessary thoughts and concentrated on the case instead. He actually managed to work all afternoon and was able to tie some of the clues together. 

Mrs Hudson dropped by in the afternoon with tea and biscuits and they settled down in the armchairs together.   
“How is the case going?” She wanted to know.   
“I have a few clues, should be able to solve it soon.”  
“Did John stay overnight again?” she said and sipped her tea with a little smile.   
“Yes.”  
“And?”  
“And what?”  
“How did it go?” She didn't give up so easily.   
“How did what go?”  
“Sherlock, don't play numb. It doesn't suit you. Will he move back in?”  
“Well, he is proposing to his girlfriend today so I assume he won't.”  
“Oh…” she said and looked sad.   
“Oh, what?”  
“I thought, now that you're back...” she looked at him intently.   
“John is a free man, he can do whatever he wants.”  
“Have you told him?”  
“Told him what?”  
She made a face, “that you want him here. How much he means to you.”  
Sherlock huffed.   
“Sherlock, you need to tell him.”  
“No, I don't. He has made his decision.”  
“Sherlock...”  
“Thank you for the tea, Mrs Hudson.”  
Sherlock got up and walked to the door. Mrs Hudson followed him and put a hand on his biceps.   
“Sherlock...” she looked at him sadly. Sherlock couldn't meet her eyes, too afraid of what she might see, so he kept his eyes on the floor until she had left the flat with an exasperated sigh. 

When John came back in the evening something was different. John was unusually quiet and curt and Sherlock couldn´t really grasp why. They had dinner at the kitchen table that was moderately clean for once, since Sherlock hadn´t started a new experiment yet and there was finally a breakthrough in the case after a video chat with a man working for the tube.

They were able to solve the case later that same night, when they found a giant bomb in a tube carriage close to an abandoned platform below the parliament. After the police and bomb disposal unit had come to sort out the situation John and Sherlock left the tube tunnel giggling like schoolboys and Sherlock remembered their very first case together. John had killed a man to save his life that very first night and they had giggled at the crime scene just like today and had gone to dinner afterwards. Looking back, that night has actually been one of the best in Sherlock`s life. Sherlock smiled at the memory and John watched him intently.  
"What are you smiling about?" John wanted to know.  
"Not important."  
"It makes you happy, must be important," John smiled up at him.  
Sherlock looked him in the eyes with a grin.  
"Dinner?"  
"Starving."  
And they burst out into laughter once more.  
"Angelo`s?" Sherlock asked, as soon as he was able to breathe normal again.  
John looked at him with an expression he couldn´t quite grasp and nodded slowly. 

They took a cab to the restaurant, where Angelo nearly burst out into tears when he saw them entering the room. Sherlock`s resurrection wasn´t official yet, so there were quite a lot of people that had no idea that he was still alive. Angelo gave them their usual table in front of the window and brought wine on the house and the obligatory candle. Sherlock fully expected John to tell Angelo off, like that very first night, to tell him that he wasn`t Sherlock`s date, but he did no such thing. Instead he looked at the candle with a grin and then smiled up into Sherlock`s eyes. Sherlock wasn´t able to hold his gaze for long but he smiled too.

They had a delicious dinner that Angelo prepared especially for them with an excellent tiramisu as dessert and left the restaurant with full stomachs and light heads. They walked back to Baker Street through the icy November night, but neither man recognized how cold it actually was. They walked in companionable silence side by side, much closer than usually, glancing sideways into each other´s eyes with a little smile every now and then.   
Back at Baker Street Sherlock made fire in the mantle while John fetched two glasses and the bottle of Scotch from the kitchen. They sat in their armchairs together, enjoying the crackling of the fire. Sherlock felt happy and smiled into his scotch until his gaze crossed the side table and he remembered the ring box that had been on top of it for the last two days.  
"Have you been successful today?" Sherlock asked quietly.  
John looked a bit baffled, "well, we prevented the parliament from being blown up by a giant bomb, so I would say yes."  
"That´s not what I meant," Sherlock mumbled, not meeting his eyes.  
"What did you mean, then?"   
"I meant your unfinished business," he gestured vaguely in the direction of the side table.  
"Oh," John said and then said nothing, until Sherlock finally had the courage to look him in the eye.  
"Do you really think I proposed today?" John sounded as if he couldn´t believe what he was saying.  
"Well, you said you had to finish something." Sherlock knitted his eyebrows, fingers fidgeting with the glass in his hands.  
"Listen, Sherlock," John cleared his throat like he usually did when he didn´t know how to tell Sherlock something he didn´t really want to. John inhaled deeply and locked eyes with Sherlock.  
"When you died in front of that building two years ago, something inside me died with you. I`ve tried to find a meaning and a way back to life for months afterwards without much success. I was depressed, I drank too much, I quit my job, I let myself go. When Mary came into my life and we started dating, I thought that this was what I always wanted, a girlfriend, a dependable job, maybe a family."  
Sherlock had to swallow hard at those words since this was exactly what he had feared for so long, John finding out that someone else suited him better.  
"John, I know that..."  
"You know nothing, Sherlock," John interrupted him.  
Sherlock looked up, dumbfounded.  
"But I can tell you this; it took me less than a day to recognize that this here with you is what I want and nothing else."  
"What?" Sherlock had a hard time to process what he had just heard.  
"Sherlock, I was practically dead for the last two years. Mary made things a bit better and I would have married her, because she was the next best thing after I'd lost you. But now...," John paused for a few seconds and closed his eyes, as if to brace himself. When he looked back into Sherlock's eyes his look was as firm as Sherlock had ever seen it.   
"Now there is no reason to marry her anymore."  
"Why?" Sherlock still didn´t believe what John was saying.  
"When you were dead, I was at your grave, I gave a little speech. I asked you to stop being dead," John told him.  
"I know, I heard you," Sherlock whispered.  
John was silent for a few seconds, before he shuffled forwards in his chair.   
"I got what I wanted," John said.   
"So, you`re..." Sherlock swallowed, "you haven´t proposed?"   
"No," John chuckled, "I haven`t and I`m not going to."  
"Then what did you do today?" Sherlock crinkled the bridge of his nose, like always when he didn´t really understand what was going on.  
"I told her that it`s over and that I`m moving out." John looked at him a bit unsure, "that is, if you want me back here."  
Sherlock was silent for a long time, trying to process all the information he had just gotten. When he finally got everything sorted he noticed that John was still waiting for an answer.  
"Off course I want you here, John."  
John`s face lit up, "good, that`s... good."

There was a long silence after this, neither man knowing what to say. They sipped their scotch, glancing up into each other's eyes every now and then. The fire was crackling beside them and there was faint traffic noise in the background. John propped his feet up onto the edge of Sherlock's armchair at some point, shuffling down in his own chair in the process. John's feet were touching the side of Sherlock's thigh and his mind started wandering. Would this be the right moment to ask John about what had happened in those alleys so long ago or should he never say a word about it at all? Would John get angry or sad? Or would he leave immediately and decide that he should better run back to Mary before it was too late? John hated it when Sherlock had secrets, when he didn't tell him what was going on. But telling him this, asking about what it meant? It could destroy everything.   
No, not tonight. What they had was too vulnerable.   
Should he tell John about his own feelings instead? Would this be the right time, the right place, after John had just told him how important he was? Probably not. If John didn't approve of what Sherlock had to say things could get awkward very quickly. They had just agreed to live together again, where should John go if he didn't like what Sherlock wanted?   
Then again, they had talked more than ever before since he came back and they had never been closer to one another.   
When he looked at John Sherlock noticed an amused grin on his face.   
“What?”  
“What's going on in that giant brain of yours?” John grinned.   
“Nothing,” Sherlock lied.   
John looked at him for a long time before he spoke again.   
“Are you going to tell me someday?”  
“Someday,” Sherlock whispered.

It had become pretty late and they both seemed to be tired from the events of the day but Sherlock had no idea how to proceed. Would John sleep in his room again tonight or would he move back into his own room upstairs. Sherlock wanted him close, wanted him to move into his own bedroom. They didn't really need the bedroom upstairs if it was Sherlock's decision, but he still had no idea how to ask for what he wanted.   
John finally saved him from his train of thoughts when he stood up wordlessly and stretched out one hand. Sherlock took it with a pounding heart and John led him down the corridor to the bathroom, where they got ready for bed together. John changed the bandages on his back with Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bathtub and seemed to be quite content with the healing process.   
Once in the bedroom they got under the covers and lay down on their sides facing each other. John stretched out one hand and took Sherlock's, pulling it against his chest, where he held on tight. Sherlock could feel John's heart beating faster than normal and his own heart sped up too. They were so close, but he had still no idea how he could ever tell John what he felt. Maybe he could show him instead was Sherlock's last thought before he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

 

Sherlock awoke with a start in the middle of the night. He had been dreaming again, something about an old slaughterhouse where he had to hide inside a cold-storage room, two men with knives on his heels. It was dark and dead silent; the only thing he could hear was the shuffling of feet now and then when his persecutors were moving.   
Fortunately Sherlock woke up before the dream got out of hand, before the men had a chance to reach him and stab him in the abdomen. He was sitting upright in bed, heart beating much too fast and only now did he realize that John`s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.  
"Sherlock, are you awake?"  
Sherlock tried to focus until he was seeing John`s features beside him as clearly as possible in the dark room.  
"Yes," he croaked.  
"You`re at home, Sherlock and you`re not alone," John said intently.  
Sherlock ruffled his hair with both hands and lay back down, letting the air out of his lungs in a rush. He stared at the ceiling above his head when John lay down beside him and slipped one arm around Sherlock`s torso. John pulled him close and pressed his face into the crook of Sherlock`s neck.   
“I'm here, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock could feel John`s warm breath against the skin of his neck and closed his eyes again. He turned his head a little, just far enough that his cheek touched John's hair and he could smell John's scent. Sherlock tried to get his breathing and heartrate back to normal. John`s warm body pressed against his own helped a lot to calm him down. Sherlock has had no idea how good it could feel not to be alone. How soothing it was when he woke up at night, disoriented and frightened and John was there to calm him down.  
"John?" he whispered after a long time.  
"Hm?" John seemed to be falling asleep again already.  
"I..."  
"Hhmmm?" he sounded even more sleepy, but tightened the arm around Sherlock`s chest slightly. Sherlock couldn´t bring himself to say the words he so desperately wanted to say so he slipped his own arm around John's back instead. The other hand stroked up John's arm until it came to rest on his biceps. John let out a content sigh and snuggled even closer.   
Sherlock waited until John`s breathing was deep and even, until he was absolutely sure that John was fast asleep, before he finally whispered those three words he was so afraid of.  
"I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the kudos and lovely comments on the last chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

When Sherlock woke up in the morning he was alone in bed and his heart sank immediately. He opened his eyes to take a look around the room, but John definitely wasn't there. He just wanted to check the time on his mobile when he saw a note on the nightstand.   
‘Good morning, had an early shift at the surgery, didn't want to wake you. See you tonight. John’  
Sherlock lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. He had hoped to wake up with John again, had hoped that John would still be in his arms, that he could revel a bit in the feeling of having him so close before John woke up and shattered everything by being embarrassed about it, but now he didn't even have those few minutes.   
Sherlock groaned, frustrated with his own transport that didn't let him wake up earlier. That would never have happened just a week ago. He had always been on high alert for the past two years, day and night, waking up at the tiniest noise. But now that he was back at home, with John by his side, all his defence mechanisms seemed to have shut down. And when he really thought about it, that wasn't such a bad thing after all, was it?

Lestrade dropped by midmorning with a case file in his hands.   
“Morning Sherlock.”  
“Good Morning, Gavin.”  
“It's Greg.”  
“Is it?” Sherlock grinned and Lestrade shook his head, grinning back.   
“Listen, we're just checking some old cases and this one here might be connected to the terror cell that most likely placed the bomb last night. Would you mind taking a look?”  
“Yes, why not, leave it on the desk.”  
“It's probably not even a five on your scale...” Lestrade said and scratched his eye brow.   
“It's fine, I'll take a look.”  
“Seriously? It's just a cold case. You're not feeling sick or anything?” Lestrade looked astonished.   
“If you're planning on mocking me any further I might change my mind.”  
“Sorry, sorry,“ he held up both hands ”just a bit stunned by the lack of resistance,” he grinned and sat down in John`s armchair.  
“Hey, how are things going with John?” Lestrade wanted to know.  
"With John?"  
"Yeah, you know, the small bloke with the grey blond hair, army doctor, used to live here..."  
"I know perfectly well who John is," Sherlock got a bit annoyed.  
"Then how`s it going?" Lestrade grinned again.  
“Fine, he's moving back in.”  
“Wow, that was quick... So, you apologized then?”  
“Apologized?”  
“For what you`ve done..."   
Sherlock tried to look dumbfounded, but he knew perfectly well what Lestrade was hinting at. He had no intention whatsoever of talking about it.  
"Sherlock he was grieving for you for two years, he was absolutely devastated."   
Sherlock looked at Lestrade with a blank expression, trying not to show how much those words affected him.  
"I knew that you two had been close before... you know... but I never thought that your death would actually destroy him. But it did. He was grieving you like a widower, Sherlock. You should have seen him during the last two years. I tried to get him out of his flat every now and then, but usually without success. He wasn´t talking to anyone for month after your death, except his therapist, and even that didn´t seem to be of any use. I was afraid he would do something stupid for months afterwards, but I had no idea how to help him.”  
Sherlock was quiet, eyes cast down to his own lap, heart heavy in his chest. He didn't know what to say to this.   
“If you haven't done it already, you really should tell him that you're sorry. Don't take him for granted anymore.”  
“I never took him for granted,” Sherlock said quietly.   
“Then maybe tell him that,” Greg said, got up and clapped him on the shoulder before he left the flat.

When he was alone again, Sherlock took a look at the case file and tried to focus on what he was reading, but his mind was spinning around Lestrade's words. He had thought about apologizing to John, of course he had, but he had no idea how to actually do that. He tried to think about what he should say to John, how he should actually start that conversation, but pulled completely blank.   
He saw his chance coming when he got a text from John later that day.   
‘Will go to my flat after work to pack some things. Should I bring takeaway?’  
‘I'll do it. Just tell me when you come home. - SH’  
‘Honestly?’  
‘Honestly. - SH’  
‘In that case, I'll be home around eight.’  
Sherlock hesitated a bit before he sent his answer.   
‘Looking forward to it. - SH’  
‘Me too :)’  
‘Did you honestly just use a smiley face? - SH’  
‘Yep, get used to it! ;)’  
‘Stop it. - SH’  
‘Nope :)’  
Sherlock smiled and put the phone away. 

He racked his brain for the next few hours about what he could do for dinner. What on earth would be appropriate as an apology for faking his death and playing dead for two years? Should he take John out to some fancy restaurant? No, not their style. John was usually tired after a long shift at the surgery and not keen on leaving the flat again except to run after Sherlock for an interesting case.  
Just getting takeaway like every other night however seemed not enough, so he finally decided to cook dinner instead. He had never cooked for John, not even breakfast, so maybe this would be a good idea. He just hoped that John would appreciate it. 

Sherlock heard John open the front door a few minutes to eight in the evening. Always the soldier, right on time, he thought and smiled. He was in the kitchen and had just finished preparing their dinner. As soon as he heard John in the staircase he slipped his suit jacket on and lingered in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. His heart started pounding quickly, palms getting sweatier the closer John`s footsteps came to the landing.  
John entered the flat through the door in the living room a few seconds later with a suitcase in hand. Once through the door his jaw and suitcase dropped simultaneously.   
“What's this?” He looked stunned, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock had set the table with proper tableware, cutlery and serviettes and he had even gone down to Mrs Hudson to get a white table cloth.   
“I cooked dinner,” Sherlock gestured vaguely in the general direction of the kitchen.   
“You cooked dinner?” John looked as if he didn´t trust his own ears.  
“Yes.”  
“You... cooked dinner,” John looked completely baffled now.  
“It's just cooking, John, very similar to chemistry.”  
“Yeah, but you actually cooked dinner.”  
“Yes.”  
“Is that some kind of experiment?”  
“No.”  
“There are serviettes and wine and there's even a candle.” John said, pointing to the table.   
“You didn't seem to mind the candle last night...” Sherlock dropped his eyes to the floor.   
John smiled and stepped closer, “no, I didn't mind.”  
John was silent for a minute, taking everything in. The light was dimmed, a candle burning on the table, a bottle of white wine in a cooler, some classical music playing in the background, a fire crackling in the mantle and the whole flat smelled delicious.  
“Sherlock, what is this?”  
“It's an apology,” he said quietly, looking up through his lashes.   
“An apology?” John furrowed his brows.   
“... for... all the hurt that I've caused you. I didn't know how much my death would affect you. I thought I was just your flatmate back then. I had no idea, John.”  
“We've always been more than flatmates, Sherlock,” John took another step closer.   
“You were always more than a flatmate to me,” Sherlock said quietly, looking to his own feet again, "but... I didn`t know that the feeling was mutual."  
“Sherlock, you`re my best friend, have been from the day I moved into this flat,” John stepped right into Sherlock's space. Sherlock looked up, stunned.   
“I'm... your... best... friend?” he crinkled the bridge of his nose, not really believing what he just heard.   
“Yeah, 'course you are,” John said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes and smiled. Sherlock's heart started pounding, John was so close and he was smiling at him.   
“I, erm... the... the food,” Sherlock stuttered and stepped away quickly, rushing into the kitchen. He arranged the salad and pasta with salmon he had prepared onto two plates with shaking hands and brought them over to the table. John was waiting for him beside one of the chairs and they sat down opposite of each other.   
“Wow, that looks really good,” John smiled at him.   
“I told you, it's just chemistry,” Sherlock was a bit embarrassed.   
“Yeah, right,” John grinned and took the bottle of wine to fill their glasses.   
They started eating in silence and Sherlock didn't dare to look up until he felt John's foot nudge his own under the table. He looked up at that and saw John smiling fondly. John didn't pull his foot away however, he pressed it more firmly against Sherlock's instead. Sherlock's heartrate went up again, throat so tight that he hardly managed to swallow his food.   
“Sherlock?”  
He had to clear his throat before he was able to answer, but it came out a bit crooked anyway, "yes?"  
“This is beautiful, thank you,” John made a vague gesture above the table.  
Sherlock smiled and dropped his gaze again, “anytime, John.”

They finished the main dish and Sherlock went back to the kitchen to caramelize the creme brulée he had prepared earlier. When he came back into the living room with the two bowls in hand John was grinning at him.   
“You should apologize more often.”  
Sherlock couldn't stop smiling through dessert, especially since John had pressed his foot against Sherlock`s again. They cleared the table together afterwards and Sherlock washed the dishes while John dried them. They were standing so close, glancing into each other´s eyes with shy smiles every time Sherlock handed John another piece of crockery to dry. When they were done John turned to him.   
“Sherlock?”  
“Hmm?” he didn't dare to turn around and look into John's eyes.   
“I forgive you,” John said quietly and squeezed Sherlock's upper arm.   
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered.   
“Can you just promise me one thing?”  
Sherlock stayed quiet and waited.   
“No more secrets, okay? Never again.”  
Sherlock glanced at him sideways and nodded once, “okay.”

They changed into pyjamas afterwards and settled down on the sofa, fetching their wine glasses on the way and agreed on watching one of those Bond movies John liked so much. They sat on the sofa, closer than ever before, bodies touching from ankles to shoulders and clinked their glasses.   
“Welcome home, John,” Sherlock said and gazed at John's suitcase, that was still standing in the middle of the living room where he had dropped it earlier. John followed his gaze and was silent for a minute.   
“I'll bring it upstairs after the movie.”  
“There's no rush, John” Sherlock said quietly, fidgeting with the glass in his hands.   
They watched the movie silently for a while, but Sherlock wasn't able to concentrate on what was happening on screen. The only thing he could concentrate on was the feeling of John's body pressed to his own. He emptied his wine glass to put it down on the table and shuffled down on the sofa into a more comfortable position, propping his feet up onto the coffee table. John beside him did the same, nudging Sherlock's foot again. They stayed like this until the end credits rolled and Sherlock found that he couldn't remember a single thing about the movie, not if his life depended on it.   
What he did remember though, was the exact temperature of John's body where it touched his own, the feeling of John's foot pressed against his, the rhythm of John's breathing beside him. He had stored all of this information securely in his mind palace during the last two hours.   
When they got up from the sofa things got a bit awkward, since they were both staring at John's suitcase in the middle of the living room.  
“John, you don't have to sleep in my room tonight, you can just move back into your room properly,” he said very quietly, eyes on the floor. John turned to him and studied Sherlock's face for a long minute.   
“Do you want me to sleep upstairs?”  
Sherlock looked up, voice barely audible, “no.”   
“Good, let's go to bed then,” John smiled and gave Sherlock a gentle push to make him start walking. Sherlock's heart was in his throat once more, but he started moving. 

When they were under the duvet together, laying on their sides facing each other John took his hand, just like the night before. Would this be their new routine? John lying beside him in bed, smiling fondly, holding his hand? Sherlock could live with that. He wanted so much more, but this here was already so much more than he had ever hoped for. It had to be enough.  
Sherlock's heart started racing because he knew that now was the only possible time to tell John about what he had seen in those alleys two years ago. Sherlock needed to tell John that he had followed him during those two nights and what he had seen him do. John expected honesty, he had been absolutely clear about that earlier that night and if Sherlock didn't tell him tonight he would miss his chance forever. He wanted to be honest with John, didn´t want to have any more secrets so he needed to tell him now. He braced himself for whatever might come and opened his mouth.   
“John?"  
“Hmm?” John looked at him fondly, his thumb caressing the back of Sherlock`s hand in small circles. Sherlock inhaled deeply, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.   
"You… you said before 'no more secrets'...”  
John looked at him, waiting, eyes drawn a bit tighter.   
“There's... something I need to tell you...” Sherlock couldn't look him in the eye so he fixed his gaze on John's left shoulder instead, the one where he had been shot years ago, the wound that had actually brought him into Sherlock`s life. He had never seen John`s scar, although they had been living together for two years before he left. He desperately wanted to see it, wanted to touch it, kiss it...  
“What is it?” John grinned and squeezed his hand, obviously aware that Sherlock`s thoughts had started drifting off. Sherlock tried to focus on the here and now again.  
“I, umm... before I left London... after the fall...”  
Sherlock saw the smile on John's face disappear, his thumb stopped stroking.  
“I've been in London for another month before I had to leave for Eastern Europe, and...”  
“And what?”  
“I wanted to see you before I left, I needed to be sure that you would be okay..."  
“And?”  
”I... I've been following you for two nights...” Sherlock watched John closely and something in John changed, his eyes became unfocused.   
“Which nights?” John asked, voice hoarse.   
“Umm, you... ” God, why was that so hard? They were friends, best friends in fact, why was it so hard to ask John about some one night stands he has had two years ago? Sherlock inhaled, exhaled.   
“The nights where you went to gay bars and had sex with men in back alleys. Men that looked like me.” Sherlock said it in a rush, before the courage could have a chance to leave him again, heart pounding rapidly in his chest, mouth getting dry.  
Sherlock saw all colour drain from John's features within a second, he was white as a sheet all of a sudden. John stared at Sherlock with a blank face for a long time, then let go of Sherlock's hand and got out of bed. He walked over to the window and stared outside, one hand braced against the window frame, the other clenched into a fist by his side.   
“John?” Sherlock sat up in bed.   
“Just give me a minute, okay?”  
“John, I just want to understand it. You always said you're not gay but as soon as I was gone you had sex with men... I just...”  
“Sherlock, you're talking too much.” John's voice had a dangerous undertone now, his right hand clenching violently.   
Sherlock got out of bed and walked over to him.  
“Stay away from me, okay?”  
“John?”  
“I said, stay away.”  
Sherlock stopped abruptly. This was it then, he had made a mistake. John would run out of the room in a minute, would probably grab his suitcase and leave Baker Street forever. Sherlock started panicking, blood rushing in his ears.   
”I'm not judging you or something, I just want to understand it,” Sherlock tried again, chest tight.   
When John started talking after what felt like an eternity, his voice was hoarse.   
“I had just lost you forever. I was grieving. I needed to do something... It was this or jumping off that roof after you."  
“But... I don´t understand... you... you're not gay. Why did you have sex with men? ”  
John huffed and shook his head.   
“Why did they look like me?” Sherlock whispered and stepped right behind him.  
"It was the closest I could get to you,” John`s voice was barely audible. Sherlock felt a stab in his chest and had to swallow hard before he could speak again.  
“But... you got sick afterwards, you obviously hated having sex with men. Why did you do it then?”  
“Of course I hated it, none of these guys were you,” John whispered.   
“I don't understand...”  
“You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, can`t you just figure it out? Do I really have to spell it out for you?” John said through gritted teeth.  
“John, I... ”  
“I love you, you bloody idiot!"  
Sherlock`s ears started ringing. Did John really say that or was it just his imagination? Wishful thinking? This couldn´t be true, he must have misheard.  
“What did you say?" Sherlock whispered.  
"It's fine, Sherlock, I know that you don't feel things that way and honestly that's fine. I just want you back in my life and I love what we have now... how close we are, it's... enough...”  
“No, John,” Sherlock whispered and put a hand on John`s shoulder. John finally turned around to look at him, eyes narrowed into slits.  
“What was that?”  
“It's not enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the little cliffhanger, it was just too tempting, hope you liked that chapter anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of a rape scene in this chapter, please be careful if that triggers you.  
> I've updated the tags, too.

Sherlock saw the anger drain from John's face and there was confusion instead, disbelief.  
“What?” John whispered.  
“I said it's not enough.”  
“What do you mean?” John's brows were drawn together.  
“I jumped off a roof to save your life, John. What do you think that means?” Sherlock's eyes were boring into John's.  
John's eyes narrowed, then went wide for long seconds and then soft and Sherlock stepped right into his space, closing the last little gap between them. John grabbed Sherlock's elbow, as if to steady himself and Sherlock's heart started racing at the contact, palms getting sweaty all of a sudden. He felt nervous about what to do next but then he focused on the soft look in John's eyes and he knew it was going to be alright. He bent down a little, breathing shakily and saw John's pupils dilating. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he inhaled one more time before their lips met for the first time. John's lips were soft and a little wet against his own and it felt incredible. Sherlock's chest went wide, something he had never felt before and his hands started trembling. John moved his mouth against his own so very slowly and Sherlock's brain went completely blank. He was vaguely aware that he brought both arms around John's shoulders and pulled him against his chest, John's own arms sliding around Sherlock's waist deepening the kiss. He felt John pressing up against his body and gripped him tighter for leverage. John's tongue darted out to trace the seam of his lower lip and then his upper lip and Sherlock opened his mouth a bit reveling in the feeling of John's warm lips against his own. He would have been happy to do just this for the rest of his life. They were both breathing harder and John pulled back a little after a minute or two or maybe half an hour, Sherlock didn't know and to his own embarrassment he heard himself whimper at the loss of contact. He blushed and dropped his gaze.  
“Hey,” John said softly and cupped his face with one hand. When Sherlock looked up he expected John to laugh at him because of the desperate noise he had made, but what he found instead was a soft smile.  
John took his hand then, leading him over to the bed. He made Sherlock sit down, stepped into the V of his legs and looked down into his eyes with an expression so full of affection that it took Sherlock's breath away for a second. John smiled and brought one hand up to place it on Sherlock's cheek again, caressing the cheekbone with his thumb and Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, leaning into John's touch.  
“You really want this,” John whispered in wonder.  
“This is everything I ever wanted for the past two years,” Sherlock whispered and John leaned down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Sherlock inhaled deeply, not believing how good a simple gesture like this could feel and slipped both arms around John's middle to pull him against his chest again. He felt John's right hand sliding into the curls at the nape of his neck, fingertips stroking softly and he closed his eyes. John rested his head on top of Sherlock's and Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat, quicker than normal, where his cheek was pressed against John's chest. He remembered the first time John had held him like this, about three days ago. Only this was so much better because he knew that it actually meant something, that it was not just pity or some sort of obligation.  
Sherlock pulled back a little to look up into John's eyes and John bent down to kiss him again, very softly at first, only a press of lips to his own. Then John's tongue darted out to caress Sherlock's lower lip again and he opened his mouth to let him in.  
Their tongues touched for the first time and Sherlock thought that nothing had ever felt so good. John explored his mouth carefully, tongues tangling together. It was a bit messy and wet and awkward too and the best thing Sherlock had ever experienced. His own hands were roaming over John's back, feeling the warmth of his body through the soft fabric of his t-shirt. John had one hand still in Sherlock's hair, the other stroked up and down his spine softly, still careful not to put too much pressure onto Sherlock's healing wounds.  
Sherlock let one hand slip under John's shirt, feeling the warm, soft skin at the small of his back for the first time. John stopped kissing Sherlock to pull his own shirt off and Sherlock's eyes found John's scar immediately. He stared at it, not believing that he was allowed to see it for the first time, after so many years. The actual scar from the bullet wound wasn't very big, just a round patch of knobbly skin. But there were two longer scars crossing it where they had obviously cut the bullet out of John's shoulder and the visible marks from messy stitches, done on the battlefield as quickly as possible. Sherlock stared at the scar in wonder and he wanted to touch it, kiss it, feel it's texture under his fingertips and lips, but he didn't dare.  
“You can, you know,” John said softly and Sherlock looked up into soft blue eyes. He wasn't entirely sure what John meant and hesitated, so John took Sherlock's right hand and placed it on top of his scar. Sherlock let his fingertips stroke the damaged skin for long seconds before he pulled John close with his other arm to press a kiss on his naked chest, right above his heart. John brought both arms around his shoulders and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock looked up and they kissed again, starting to explore each other's mouths more insistent now. John's hand in his hair tugged lightly, the sensation going directly into Sherlock's groin and he let out a stifled moan that made him blush. He wanted to pull back but John didn't let him. Sherlock could feel the grin on John's face when he tugged at his hair once more instead teasing out the same reaction. His cock was already half hard now and he was embarrassed of how little it took to arouse him. Like a bloody teenager he cursed himself. That was until he realized that John's own erection was pressed firmly against his torso and all the tension fell off him immediately. John wanted this just as much he thought astonished.  
“Get this off,” John told him a bit hastily, tugging at Sherlock's t-shirt and Sherlock more than willingly complied.  
“Lay back for me,” John whispered, stroking Sherlock's cheek with the back of his fingers, eyes full of affection and Sherlock complied again. John stood beside him, eyes roaming over Sherlock's half naked body which made Sherlock feeling self-conscious and he tried to hide his erection that was now more than obvious through the thin fabric of his pyjamas, but John didn't let him.  
“Don't, Sherlock. Please don't hide.”  
Sherlock let his hands drop to the sides and closed his eyes, inhaling shakily. He felt the mattress dipping left and right beside his knees and when he opened his eyes again John was kneeling above him, face only inches apart. They locked eyes, pupils blown wide and the warmth in Sherlock's chest expanded like wildfire.  
John leaned down to kiss him again, very tenderly, apparently not able to wipe the smile off his face and Sherlock smiled too, his hands moving up and down John's sides and John shivered. He kissed along Sherlock's jaw to his cheek, then back to his ear and down the side of his neck and Sherlock closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation. John kissed and licked along his collarbone and down his sternum. When his tongue darted out to lick at Sherlock's left nipple Sherlock wasn't able to hold back a moan and he felt John grinning against his skin before he closed his mouth around it and sucked. Sherlock gripped his sides, arched his back and moaned again and John grinned once more.  
“I like that sound,” he said and did the same to Sherlock's other nipple, earning the same noise. He kissed further down along Sherlock's belly and licked around the belly button while his left hand stroked up and down Sherlock's ribcage and Sherlock bent his head back, hands clenching in the sheets beside him, breathing hard. His cock was so very hard inside his pants and he could already feel a damp spot on the fabric.  
Sherlock tried to remember the last time he had sex. It had been ages ago, back at university, but it had never been so tender, so caring, so... beautiful. It had always been rough and quick, not all that pleasant if he was honest with himself, which was actually the reason why he had stopped doing it all together. Never had anything felt as good as John kissing and caressing his body.  
He tried very hard not to think about the last time someone had intercourse with him, then, but the terrible memory tried to creep into his subconscious and he shook his head and squeezed his eyes hard to get rid of it. John must have recognized something because he pulled back a little, looking up puzzled.  
“Sherlock, you alright?”  
“Yes..., please don't stop,” he whispered, not feeling as confident as he sounded but he wanted this, wanted it so badly and shoved both hands into John's short hair to make him continue what he was doing. John got the hint and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's left hip bone, right between the two scars from the stab wounds. He stroked both hands up and down Sherlock's torso and Sherlock closed his eyes again, shoving the unpleasant memories as far back in his mind as he could manage.  
John moved further down, pressing his mouth to the spot where Sherlock's thigh met his groin and Sherlock shivered.  
“Please, John...” Sherlock had no idea what he actually wanted, but John, wonderful John, seemed to know exactly what it was that Sherlock needed. He pressed a soft kiss to the tip of Sherlock's cock through two layers of soft fabric and Sherlock clenched his hands in John's hair and moaned.  
John hooked two fingers under the hem of his pyjama trousers and looked up expectantly. Since Sherlock seemed to have lost the ability to form words just now he nodded with eyes wide, not believing what was going to happen.  
John pulled the pyjama trousers down and off, leaving Sherlock in the silky fabric of his tight black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide Sherlock's obvious arousal. John leaned down again and pressed his mouth and nose into the crease between Sherlock's tigh and groin and inhaled deeply and Sherlock panted. When John's mouth finally found the underside of his cock Sherlock's back arched off the bed on its own volition and he groaned. Sherlock felt John's mouth working along his cock from root to tip through the fabric and he was writhing and squirming on the bed.  
“John...,” he said hoarsely and John finally took pity on him and pulled his pants down and off too. Then nothing happened and Sherlock opened his eyes. John was staring at his body, eyes wide.  
“God, look at you,” he breathed before he leaned down once more and took Sherlock's hard cock into his mouth, swallowing him down as far as he could manage in one go and Sherlock clenched his hands in John's hair, body jerking upwards, a loud groan escaping his throat.  
“Oh my God!”  
Sherlock nearly lost it right then and there and tried to pull John off him, but he didn't let him and pressed his tongue flat against the underside of Sherlock's cock instead. Sherlock squirmed and moaned desperately under John`s touch.  
“John, I... ” he tugged at John's hair and John let his cock slide from his mouth with a grin.  
“Up... here...” Sherlock stuttered and John finally crawled up over his body, lying down flat on top of him.  
“Off...” Sherlock desperately tugged at John's pyjama trousers.  
John grinned again and got up to take off the rest of his clothing. He lay back on top of Sherlock, making them both moan at the sensation of their bare skin touching from chest to toes. Sherlock could feel John's hard cock pressed against his own and it felt marvelous. He brought both arms around John's torso and kissed him passionately with teeth and tongue and John moaned even louder. They started thrusting together in a slow rhythm, cocks sliding along each other's, both panting hard already. Sherlock slipped one hand between their bodies and wrapped it around John's cock, the soft skin over hard flesh feeling incredible in his hand. John pressed his face against the side of Sherlock's neck and groaned when Sherlock started stroking him. Sherlock slid his thumb over the tip of John's cock, smearing precome around the glans and John started quivering in his arms, panting hard, making Sherlock shiver every time John exhaled, his breath hot against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock couldn't believe that he was allowed to touch John like this, that John actually wanted him to.  
”Sherlock... together...” he mumbled against Sherlock's neck and Sherlock wrapped his large hand around the both of them, stroking their cocks together. They were thrusting against each other and when he felt John's hand wrap around his own, increasing the pressure on their cocks, Sherlock lost it and came with a cry, John's name on his lips, his semen spurting between their naked torsos, hot and wet.  
“God Sherlock,” John panted, shoving Sherlock's hand out of the way to stroke him through his orgasm, dropping kisses all over his face until Sherlock went limp in John's arms. Sherlock knew that he should reciprocate, that John must be desperate to come too, but he wasn´t able to move a single muscle. He vaguely registered John stroking his own cock, before he felt him tensing up on top of him and then there was more wetness on his chest and belly and John got heavy on top of him, panting hard against his shoulder and Sherlock's mind was wonderfully blank. 

When Sherlock slowly came down from his high he wrapped both arms around John and held him tight, pressing soft kisses to John`s forehead and hair and face, everywhere he could reach. John looked up then and kissed him, sloppy and wet and it was perfect. Sherlock wanted to do this for the rest of his life, lying in bed with John's warm body on top of him, holding and kissing him.  
This was what he had wanted all along, just this. 

 

Sherlock heard the heavy footsteps coming down the corridor, long before the bolt was thrusted aside, before the heavy iron door was opened and before the single light bulb in the small, cold room was switched on. He heard them coming closer, heard their drunken laughter, the slurred speech and he knew what it meant. He could already smell the disgusting scent of vodka, he could hear the repellant panting, he could still feel the pain inside his body and he shivered violently.  
_`Not again, please, not again,´_ he prayed silently.  
He couldn´t bear it again, he just couldn`t. Sherlock crawled as far into the corner of his holding cell as he could manage, bare back pressed against the cold brick wall behind him. He pulled his legs up, bringing his handcuffed arms around his shins and tried to hide his face between his knees, but he knew he could never get far enough.  
They opened the squeaking door and entered the room, the same two men like yesterday. They were both heavily drunk, like yesterday. Sherlock could smell the vodka evaporating from them as soon as they came into the room and his stomach turned.  
They had taken all his clothing yesterday, he was stark naked and felt terribly exposed. There was nothing between him and the two men that could prevent, or at least delay, what was going to happen.  
They talked to him and laughed wickedly but he could barely understand their Russian since they were both lulling heavily. He tried to shield his body and begged them to leave him alone, but that only made them laugh harder, louder.  
They hauled him up to his feet and threw him onto the stinking mattress on the narrow bed in the opposite corner of the room where he landed on his front, head hitting the wall hard and he howled in pain. One of the men held him down while the other opened his flies, already panting hard.  
When Sherlock felt the hard cock pressing against the cleft of his arse he started screaming and with inhuman effort he freed himself from the grip of the other man and rolled out of bed, landing hard on the floor. He crawled over to the opposite corner again, trying to hide from his attackers. He was shaking violently, cold sweat all over his body, heart racing in his chest. 

John woke with a start. He was in bed with Sherlock, his naked body pressed against Sherlock's back, one arm around his torso, holding him. His morning erection was pressed firmly against Sherlock's arse and for a split second he smiled when he remembered what had happened between them last night. That was until he recognized that something was terribly wrong. Sherlock was squirming in his arms and he was whimpering and then he freed himself from John's grip and rolled out of bed, screaming.  
John’s eyes flew open in shock and he saw Sherlock crawling into the corner beside the wardrobe, saw him drawing his legs up to his chest, arms coming around his shins and he was whispering, no begging, something that John didn't understand, probably in Russian.  
John got out of bed, rushing over to him, heart beating rapidly. He kneeled down in front of him and Sherlock flinched and tried to crawl even further into the corner, his body shaking violently.  
“Sherlock?” John whispered.  
“Please…, not again...” Sherlock begged, in English this time, his lower lip trembling when he spoke. He hid his face between his knees, repeating those words over and over again.  
“Oh my God, Sherlock,” John whispered, realization dawning in him. He rushed over to the bed to put his clothes on as quickly as he could manage before he crawled back to Sherlock with a dressing gown in hand. John threw the dressing gown over Sherlock's shaking body and crawled backwards far enough so that Sherlock wouldn't feel threatened. Sherlock was a quivering mess, both arms pressed tightly around his shins, mumbling in Russian again.  
“Sherlock?” John tried carefully.  
“Please, don't...” Sherlock whimpered and John's heart broke.  
“Sherlock, it's me, John. You're at home, you're safe. Nobody`s going to hurt you, Sherlock. Never again.”  
John repeated that, again and again, but it didn't seem to reach Sherlock. John kept his distance and just talked to him in the most soothing way he was capable of. 

It took ages, until those words reached Sherlock's mind, before he understood their meaning, before the shaking in his body subsided and he was able to look up into John's face. A face full of concern but also fondness.  
“Sherlock,” John whispered and stretched out one hand. Sherlock stared at it for a long time before he brought up the courage to stretch out his own hand. John took it carefully and crawled a little closer.  
“Is this alright?” John asked quietly and Sherlock nodded, so John crawled even closer.  
“Can I sit beside you?”  
Sherlock nodded again, so John crawled beside him, leaning his back against the wall and pulled his legs up to his own chest, mirroring Sherlock. He never let go of Sherlock's hand and pulled it against his chest, where Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat, strong and steady, but a bit too fast. 

Sherlock was still terrified. It wasn't the first time that this specific dream haunted him, of those two nights in the darkest corner of a Russian village where he got captured in the middle of December, only a few days before Christmas. He had been able to escape after two days, running through a terrible snow storm into the adjacent forest, nearly freezing to death before an old woman had found him the next morning in a little cave while she was collecting fire wood.  
It had been only two nights, only two men, but something inside him had died forever. He had tried to delete those memories, to bury them in the deepest corner of his mind palace, together with so many other memories from the last two years and he thought he had managed quite well so far. But now he was terrified.  
Waking up in John's arms for the first time three days ago had been the best thing that had ever happened to him and now… this? He remembered that John had been holding him in his sleep, spooning him to be precise and shouldn't that feel wonderful? Shouldn't that feel incredibly safe?  
Sherlock shoved his free hand into the mop of curls on his head and silent tears rolled down his cheeks. John's arm slipped around his shoulders, pulling him close and Sherlock let him. He pressed his face against John's neck and tried desperately not to cry, not again. He was exhausted, so terribly exhausted. He had thought that John beside him, in his bed, would keep the nightmares at bay. But this was the worst nightmare he had ever had, because it was so real with John's body behind him. Sherlock`s breathing got ragged with the sheer effort not to cry.  
“It´s okay, Sherlock,” John whispered beside him, “let go.”  
And he did, he cried and he sobbed into John`s neck, his whole body shaking and John held him tight.  
“I`m so sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered, “so, so sorry.”  
When Sherlock`s tears finally ran dry it was dawning outside, a faint glimmer of daylight coming through the bedroom window. Sherlock started shivering, he was cold, so cold.  
“You`re freezing,” John mumbled, got up and dragged Sherlock with him. John helped him to get dressed and Sherlock felt like a child again, but it didn`t matter right now. He let himself be lead into the kitchen where John made him sit down in one of the kitchen chairs. He just sat there, bent forward a bit, feeling numb and watched John making tea.  
John sat down opposite of him, pushing Sherlock`s mug over the table. He took one of Sherlock`s hands and traced little patterns onto the back of it with his thumb and Sherlock felt numb.  
“Do you want to talk about it?” John asked softly and Sherlock shook his head.  
“We should talk about it, Sherlock, at least at some point.”  
“Not now,” Sherlock said, voice hoarse.  
“Okay,” John whispered and squeezed his hand.

They sat there in silence for a long time, John holding his hand, sipping his tea, Sherlock`s going cold in the mug in front of him. He stared at it but couldn`t bring himself to actually lift the cup to his mouth.  
“All I ever wanted was this…, with you,” Sherlock whispered, “and now that I have it...,” his voice broke and the tears spilled over again. John got up and around the table immediately. He kneeled down beside Sherlock`s chair and tugged on his dressing gown to make him turn around, but Sherlock couldn't. He couldn't spend the rest of his life weeping in John's arms, could he. Sherlock had always been brilliant and amazing and fantastic and not a sobbing child that was too weak to get dressed on his own or drink his tea. John would get sick of it fairly quickly.  
“I'm sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, eyes fixed on the table in front of him.  
“What?” John looked puzzled.  
“For all the whining and... and...” Sherlock gestured wildly, frustrated.  
“Sherlock?”  
He got up from his chair, nearly toppling it over in his hurry and rushed off to the bathroom to lock himself up. The last thing he heard before he locked the door was John's bewildered voice behind him.  
“Sherlock!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the long hiatus, but real life was a bit too busy lately. I hope this chapter was worth the long wait though. 
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by the lovely CONNI4. I added bits and pieces afterwards, so all mistakes that are still in here are entirely my own.

Sherlock locked the bathroom door and slid down the wall beside it until he hit the cold tiled floor. The motion hurt the wounds on his back that were still healing, but he couldn't care less right now. He pulled both legs up to his chest, resting his elbows on top of his knees. He shoved trembling fingers into his curls and tried to fight against the tears that were burning behind his eyes, refusing to spill them, yet again. He didn't want to cry, not anymore.   
He wanted to forget. Forget everything that had happened and he wanted his old life back, with cases and takeaway and John.   
John. 

What were they now? A couple? Lovers? Boyfriends? Or would John draw back, now that he knew what had happened to him? Would he be disgusted? Would he get second thoughts about what had happened between them last night?   
Sherlock couldn`t blame him. Not really. John expected Sherlock`s old brilliant self who was able to deduce everyone and everything in a matter of seconds. Not a whining, broken shadow of his former self.   
Did John already regret that he had asked to move back in last night? Was he already on the way out of the flat, grabbing the suitcase that was still standing in the middle of the living room and descending the stairs, carefully so that Sherlock wouldn`t hear the 12th and 3rd step creaking?   
Sherlock`s chest clenched further with this train of thoughts and he pressed his eyes shut to prevent the tears from spilling over. One single tear managed anyway and rolled down over his right cheekbone to the hollow beneath it. The hollow that was even more prominent, now that he was even skinnier than before he had left London. He had lost more than ten pounds during the last two years and wondered when John would start pestering him about his eating habits again. Sherlock honestly wondered why he hadn't done it already, although he used to complain about that all the time before... before everything went to hell.   
Sherlock wiped the single tear away, angry at himself, angry about his weakness. 

A soft knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts.   
“Sherlock?” John's voice sounded careful.   
“Leave me alone.” Sherlock's own voice was hoarse.   
“No, I won't.”  
Sherlock heard John sliding down to the floor on the other side of the door and then a little creaking noise when he leaned back against the door.   
“We need to talk about this, Sherlock.”  
„We really don`t.“  
„Yes, we do. You were absolutely terrified this morning and I never want to witness something like that ever again, if there is the slightest chance that I can help avoiding it.”  
Sherlock was silent. He didn't want to go through something like that again too, but he didn't want to talk about it either. He exhaled hard, clenching both hands into fists in his curls.   
“Sherlock?” John waited a few seconds. “Can I ask you what happened?”  
When Sherlock kept quiet he went on.   
„Are you going to answer me?“ John asked carefully.  
„Maybe,“ Sherlock whispered, not sure if John could even hear him on the other side of the door.  
There was silence for a long minute and then Sherlock heard John clearing his throat and inhaling.  
“Did you... have you...,” John exhaled hard and tried again, “... have you been sexually assaulted?”  
Sherlock`s chest clenched. He knew what had happened to him and he was fairly certain John knew it too, after what had happened this morning, but hearing it spelled out made his stomach turn. He breathed hard, trying to get his racing heart under control. Sherlock opened his mouth but no sound came out, so he just breathed until the knot in his throat loosened a little and then he tried again.  
„Yes,“ he whispered and this time he was sure that John had heard him, because Sherlock heard John's breath hitching.  
„Did you get raped?“ John asked very quiet.  
“Yes,” Sherlock answered, voice trembling with the sheer effort of suppressing the tears. John`s next question seemed to be even harder, since it took ages until he spoke again and Sherlock nearly thought he wouldn`t say anything else, but then he heard John swallow a few times.  
„Once?“ John whispered and Sherlock`s chest clenched again. He had hoped that he wouldn`t have to tell him any details.  
„No,“ Sherlock whispered and clenched the hands in his curls harder until his fingers felt numb. He tried to breathe, deep and even.   
„Two nights, two men, several times,“ he finally whispered.  
Sherlock heard a sob and something hitting the door.  
„I`m so sorry, Sherlock.“ John`s voice was strained.  
„Not your fault.“

There was another long silence after that and Sherlock just listened to John's breathing. He thought he could almost feel the heaving of John's torso through the thin wood of the bathroom door and tried to breathe in the same rhythm.   
„When did it happen?“  
“Last year, mid-December.”  
“Where?”  
“Eastern Russia.”  
Sherlock heard John shuffle nervously on the other side of the door.   
“Did you... get medical attention afterwards?”  
„I`m clean, if you're worried about that,“ Sherlock blurted out.   
“Sherlock, I...”  
„I was in Switzerland last summer and got tested,“ he added a bit calmer.   
“I meant if someone checked you for injuries,” John said hesitantly. Sherlock scoffed.   
“The medical coverage in Eastern Russian villages isn't exactly widespread, John.”  
John paused before he spoke again.   
„I'm too, by the way.... clean, I mean.“   
Another long pause and more nervous shuffling on John's side of the door.   
“Sherlock, are they..., did you...,” John huffed. Sherlock knew what he wanted to ask so he spared him the question.   
“I don't know what happened to them. They followed me, tried to find me, but I was able to get away eventually. I've never seen them again, but...” Sherlock's throat went tight.   
“But what?”  
“They... they know who I am.” Sherlock whispered.   
“What?”  
“I was undercover but... they... they called me by my real name that second night... they found out, somehow and... I'm afraid...” Sherlock's heart was racing in his chest at the memory of hiding from his abusers in the middle of nowhere with no one to help, no one he could resort to. The worst part was that he didn't know where they were, how long they had followed him after he had left Eastern Russia, if they were still looking for him or if they had forgotten about him entirely. He doubted it.  
Sherlock could feel John's tension through the closed door.   
“They are never going to hurt you again.” John was breathing heavily. “Do you hear me? I will never let that happen to you, okay?”   
Sherlock inhaled and stared into thin air.   
“Okay,” he whispered and was glad that John couldn't see his face right now. Because there was no way anyone, not even John, could save him from what had happened, or what might or might not happen in the future and he was pretty sure that every bit of fear he felt was plainly visible on his face. 

They were quiet after that and Sherlock finally calmed down a bit. His heartrate went back to normal, his breathing got less frantic and the numbness he had felt all morning turned into anger.  
„Why does that come up in my dreams again and again?“ Sherlock asked, feeling frustrated. „That happened ages ago, I should be over it by now, shouldn`t I?“  
“Oh, Sherlock… They've hurt you in the worst way possible,” John said quietly.   
Sherlock scoffed.  
“It's just transport.”  
“No, it's not just transport. You're not a sociopath, Sherlock, you have feelings and you know it.”  
Sherlock didn`t know what to say to this.  
„You`ve been traumatized. I don`t know half of the things that happened to you, but what you told me, the scars I`ve seen on your skin... Sherlock that's enough to traumatize even the strongest man.“  
Sherlock was frustrated.  
„But I can`t spend the rest of my life whining about what has happened to me. That doesn`t make sense. I should be brilliant and amazing and fascinating, not whining like a little child.“   
Sherlock recognised that he had started tearing his hair and tried to unclench his hands with great effort.  
„You won`t, Sherlock, and you are all those things, of course you are, but you just escaped from torture a couple of days ago. And you`ve spent the last two years experiencing the most horrible things. Give yourself some time to heal, Sherlock,“ John said intently.   
„And please let me help,“ he added quietly.  
There was a long silence after that, neither man saying a word. Sherlock just sat there on the  
bathroom floor, hugging his own legs. He had no idea how to proceed from here, how he should ever be able to look into John`s eyes again.  
„I`m out here, okay,“ John said eventually. „I`m not going anywhere, but I`ll leave you alone as long as you need,“ John told him and Sherlock heard him get up from the floor and padding down the hallway to the kitchen.

Sherlock thought about John`s words for a long time, there on the bathroom floor with his bottom getting numb and his knees getting stiff. He thought about what had happened during the last two years, why he had done all those things, why he had suffered through all of it. He thought about all the scars on his body, the ones clearly visible on his skin and the other ones, burnt deep in his heart and in his soul and he thought about why, in the end, he didn`t regret a single one of them. Because all he ever wanted was here in this flat. The man he loved, the man he had done all this for, was right outside the bathroom door waiting for him.  
John wasn´t going to leave, he wasn`t going to back away, he said as much. Sherlock wanted nothing more but go out there and cuddle up in John`s embrace, feel John`s strong arms around his bruised body, feel John`s soft lips against his temple and his soothing whisper in his ear. He wanted to feel John`s hands all over his body again, John`s lips pressed to his own, John`s tongue in his mouth and his moans vibrating in his own chest.   
He wanted to cuddle on the sofa with crap telly and takeaway. He wanted to work on cases again, with John`s reassuring presence by his side and the Sig in John's unwavering hand watching his back. He wanted to chase criminals all over London with John`s secure footsteps right behind him and he wanted to come home, bodies vibrating high on adrenaline, heads light, stomachs hurting from giggling.   
He wanted all of this and he just hoped that John wanted it too. 

Sherlock wiped away the tears on his cheeks with the sleeve of his dressing gown that had spilled over during the last minutes despite his best efforts not to cry and got up from the floor. He went over to the sink and turned on the tap to wash his face. He looked into the mirror and found his eyes red rimmed, face swollen, hair a mess. He felt sticky and uncomfortable and decided to take a shower before he would face John again.  
Sherlock let the shower running as hot as he could bare it and stepped under the spray. He washed his hair and body and stayed under the spray until the water ran cold and he started shivering. He went back into the bedroom afterwards to get dressed in fresh pyjamas and dressing gown and walked to the door, where he stopped with one hand on the doorknob. He needed to go outside, needed to face John. He wanted to.   
He was still embarassed about what had happened and afraid of how things would go from here, but for the first time in his life he knew that he didn`t have to face all of this alone. John was right out there.

Sherlock inhaled one more time and opened the door to step into the hallway. He couldn`t see  
John in the kitchen so he walked into the living room. The first thing he recognised was that John`s suitcase wasn`t in the middle of the room anymore and he couldn`t see it anywhere else from where he stood. Sherlock`s chest got tight and he swallowed before he turned to find John sitting in his armchair with a fresh t-shirt and track bottoms, feet bare and a mug of tea in his hand. A fire crackled in the mantle bathing the living room in a soft light, despite the harsh daylight coming through the windows. John looked up at Sherlock with a sad smile on his lips.  
„Hey,“ John said softly.  
„Hello, John.“  
„You okay?“  
„Yes.“  
„I made tea,“ John nodded to the side table beside Sherlock`s chair, where there was a steaming mug and the knot in Sherlock`s chest loosened a bit.  
"How many times did you make tea already?"  
"It`s the third cup, I drained the ones that got cold."  
Sherlock couldn`t help but grin a little when he went over to sit in his armchair and took a sip of tea.  
„Thank you.“

John was watching the fire, hands fidgeting with the mug in his own hands. Sherlock had no idea how to proceed from here, what to say or do. Last night everything had been so easy. They had both been insecure, but they had been together and it was the most wonderful night Sherlock could ever remember, but he had no idea what they were now, if John still wanted to be with him. He wanted to be allowed to touch and kiss John, because that was what he really wanted. Would John still want that, now that he knew what had happened?  
He wanted to be close to John, he wanted to be held, but he had no idea how to ask for it. John turned his head and looked into Sherlock`s eyes, a silent plea on his face, as if he didn`t know what to do either so Sherlock set his mug aside and sank down to the floor between their chairs in front of John`s feet, facing the mantle. He stared into the fire for a long time until he had worked up enough courage to reach out and close his hand around John`s left ankle. His skin was warm and soft under Sherlock's fingertips.   
John set his own mug aside and leaned forward in his chair. He stretched out one hand to touch the nape of Sherlock`s neck, carefully at first until Sherlock leaned into the touch. John slipped his hand into the curls at the back of his head and Sherlock exhaled slowly, relaxing. Sherlock tilted his head until his cheek touched John`s knee and he leaned against his legs, feeling his warmth through the fabric of the track bottoms. Sherlock felt John`s hand caressing the back of his head and sighed.

Sherlock's mind wandered back to what had happened last night, their first kiss, the feel of John's tongue soft and wet against his own, John's hands, warm and dry on his skin. John's love confession.   
Then something nagged at the back of his brain, something John had said last night. Sherlock hadn`t given it too much thought then, but now he couldn`t just let it slip away unnoticed. He tried to find the right words to bring it up, tightening the grip around John`s ankle.  
"John?"  
"Hmm?"  
"Last night," Sherlock cleared his throat, "you said something...., something about when I was dead."  
John`s hand stilled in his curls and Sherlock could feel him tensing up immediately.  
"You said," Sherlock swallowed hard, "it was this or jumping off that roof after me."  
The silence between them felt heavy, as if all the air had been sucked out of the flat all of a sudden.   
"Yes," John whispered.  
Sherlock felt his chest clench but he needed to know the truth.  
"Did you..., was that...," Sherlock huffed, he had no idea how to phrase this.  
"Yes, I thought about it." John`s voice was barely a whisper. "I thought about it too many times. I was completely lost. I went back to my therapist but that didn't help, not this time. I tried what you have seen behind those night clubs but it didn`t work. After that I drank too much, way too much, but that didn`t work either. You weren`t coming back and I was completely lost. I didn`t know how to live without you, Sherlock." He swallowed. "I didn`t want to live without you."

Sherlock had to fight against a wave of nausea at the thought of John jumping after him; of John not being here when he came back. Of having missed what they had shared during the last days and he couldn`t hold back the sob that escaped his throat. Sherlock slipped both arms around John`s leg and pressed his head firmer against John`s knee.  
"I`m so sorry," he whispered. "I had no idea what that would do to you."  
Sherlock looked up into John`s soft blue eyes and saw tears there, threatening to spill over.  
"Please, John, forgive me."  
John bent down and slipped both arms around Sherlock`s shoulders, pulling him as close as he could in this position. He pressed his face into the crown of Sherlock`s head and held him tight.  
"I already have," John murmured.  
"How?" Sherlock drew back. "How can you ever forgive me for what I`ve done to you?"  
John looked in his eyes, gaze intense and cupped his face with one hand. There was so much emotion written all over John`s beautiful face that it took Sherlock`s breath away.  
"I`m in love with you," he simply said and leaned in to press a soft kiss to Sherlock`s lips.  
"I love you, too," Sherlock whispered back.   
John slid down to the floor then, kneeling behind him, both arms coming around Sherlock`s waist until he found his hands to intertwine their fingers. Sherlock leaned back against John`s chest and felt John`s cheek pressing against the side of his neck. They stayed like this for a long time and Sherlock relaxed with John`s arms around him and the crackling fire in front of him.

„Sherlock?“  
John`s voice was barely audible, as if he was afraid of scaring Sherlock away.  
„Hmm?“  
„Can I ask you something about this morning?“  
Sherlock`s chest clenched a bit but he nodded, not trusting his own voice.  
„What triggered you?“  
Sherlock tensed, inhaling deeply.  
„I mean,“ John continued, „just so that I know what to avoid in the future."  
Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the pictures of his nightmare away, that threatened to overwhelm him again.  
„It… the dream was…,“ Sherlock huffed and John squeezed his fingers and tigthened the arms around his waist. Sherlock tried to breath normal and tried again.  
„I woke up when one of the, the… when one of them started penetrating me and…,“ Sherlock dropped his head.  
„And my cock against your arse... Shit I`m so sorry, Sherlock.“ John pressed a soft kiss against his temple.  
“No, I don't want to you to be sorry. You did nothing wrong.”  
“I know, but still...”  
„I want those things, John, I…“  
„Sshhh, we don`t have to do anything, Sherlock.“  
„But I want to.“ Sherlock turned around far enough to see John`s face. „I want that… with you,“ he said intently.   
He wanted all of it with John. He wasn`t afraid of it. He didn`t want John to worry, or be sorry, or hold back, but he didn't know how to phrase it, not yet. So Sherlock tried to show all of his emotions on his face so that John would understand.   
„Then we`ll get there.“ John whispered, eyes soft. „In our own time.“  
Sherlock searched his face and found nothing but honesty and affection in John`s features. He turned back to the fire and leaned back against John`s warm body.  
„I imagined this so many times, you know,“ Sherlock whispered, „waking up with you like this.“  
„You did?“ John murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's shoulder.   
„Oh yes. But I … I didn´t imagine it ending up like this,“ Sherlock exhaled in a rush, chest clenching again and John's arms tightened around him once more.   
„What did you imagine?“  
Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning further into John and John squeezed his hands.  
„I thought we would wake up like this after our first night together. That I would wake up first, feeling your arms around me, your warm body pressed against my back, your breath tickling the nape of my neck.“  
John shifted a bit behind him to press a soft kiss to the nape of Sherlock`s neck.  
„I imagined that I would press back against you, just a little bit. Not to wake you, just to feel you against me from head to toe, but you would stir a bit anyway. You would wake up slowly and you would become aware of me in your arms and then you would nuzzle against my neck and smile because you remembered what had happened between us the night before.“  
John did exactly what Sherlock described behind him and Sherlock could feel his smile against his skin.   
„Your arm would tighten around my body and you would slide your hand upwards to caress my  
chest.“  
John untangled his left hand from Sherlock`s and slid it upwards to stroke Sherlock`s chest tentatively.   
„You would press your body more firmly against mine and would kiss my neck.“  
John mirrored everything Sherlock told him and Sherlock sighed softly, breathing deep and slow.   
„What then?“ John murmured.  
„You would stroke my chest and play with my nipples a bit and then your hand would move down to stroke my stomach.“  
Sherlock felt John smile again and the fingers of his left hand soft on his body.  
John stroked up and down his chest through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He swirled his fingertips around Sherlock`s nipples, first one, then the other and stroked down to his stomach where he painted little circles around his belly button. John kissed his neck and shoulder and the side of his jaw, where ever he could reach.  
„What would I do next?“ John wanted to know.  
“Your hand would move along the side of my leg, as far down as you could reach and then back up along the underside of my thigh to my bum.”  
John hummed appreciatively and stroked slowly down along Sherlock's thigh to his knee and up along the underside of his thigh and back to his stomach, painting little circles again.   
„How would you feel?“ John murmured.  
„Warm and safe,“ Sherlock whispered and smiled, „content and…“  
„And?“  
„… aroused.“ Sherlock blushed a bit and felt John`s right hand tighten, where their fingers were still entwined.  
“And then?”  
„You would… my... my cock would bump against the back of your hand while you stroked my stomach…“ Sherlock felt his cheeks blushing deeper and he shifted a bit until John`s hand moved a bit further down to press softly against the head of Sherlock`s erect cock and Sherlock was sure that John could feel the wet spot that had already formed on his pyjama trousers.  
„And then?“  
„Your fingertips would trace along my cock and down to my balls.“  
Sherlock`s breathing and heartrate sped up when he felt John`s fingers featherlight through the fabric of his pyjama trousers and he pressed his body further back into John`s, eyes closing.   
„You would rub your palm over my cock and I wouldn`t be able to keep back the moans,“ Sherlock whispered and his cheeks flushed further.   
„Then don`t,“ John murmured, pressing his palm against the bulge in Sherlock`s trousers. Sherlock`s head dropped back against John`s shoulder and he moaned softly. John`s fingertips moved to the hem of Sherlock`s pyjama trousers.  
„Can I?“ he asked quietly.  
„God, yes.“ Sherlock breathed and John`s hand slipped inside his trousers to rub over his cock and balls.  
„What would I do next?“  
„You would take my cock in your hand.“  
John closed his fingers around Sherlock`s cock and Sherlock hissed.  
„Yes, like... like that. And you would stroke your thumb across the glans to smear the precome all over it.“  
John`s thumb moved over Sherlock`s cock and he moaned through a long exhale. He felt John`s lips on his neck and cheek and jaw and his hand moving along his cock.  
„And you would stroke me and kiss me until I`m writhing in your arms.“   
Sherlock wasn`t able to sit still any longer, his pelvis met John`s rhythm and he was breathing hard. John`s other hand let go of Sherlock`s to stroke up and down his thigh and fondle his balls through his trousers and Sherlock lost the capability to form words right then and there. He came with a soft cry all over John`s hand and his own pyjamas and the rug in front of him and John stroked him through it until he got too sensitive. John let go of Sherlock`s cock carefully and slipped both arms around his chest to hold him in a tight embrace, all the while whisperig soft nonsense into Sherlock`s ear.

“John?”  
“Hmm?”  
“This position must be murder on your knees,” Sherlock murmered, guilt creeping up his spine.   
“It is,” John chuckled, “I'll probably need crutches for a week. That is, if I'll ever be able to get up from this floor again.”  
Sherlock untangled himself from John's arms and got to his feet, stretching out both hands to help John up from the floor. John hissed when his joints cracked angrily and Sherlock pulled him into his arms and kissed him deeply, hoping to distract him from the pain in his knees.   
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered against John's lips and John held him tighter and kissed him again.   
They stood there for a while, kissing softly when Sherlock drew back slowly.   
“John?”  
John quirked one eyebrow in question.   
“Where is your suitcase?”


End file.
